The Spine of Error
by Signature Smirk
Summary: Starting just after the Blind Banker: John discovers something he never knew (and never would have guessed) about Sherlock Holmes after tragedy has already struck. Now John is going to attend the funeral of a stranger, all for the sake of his new friend. Very AU, and not much action. OC becomes a major character and the ones I don't own tend to be pretty OOC. Good luck with that.
1. The News

A/N: Hi! Just establishing the timeline; this is after the Blind Banker but before the Great Game. Hope you enjoy! Or cry... whichever. Also, bit of a disclaimer: I'm American, so sorry about my potentially awful English terminology and definite lack of "u"s. Do me a favor and ignore them?

* * *

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock stood to his full height, hearing the name having pulled his attention completely away from the crime scene in front of him. Lestrade was the one to have said it.

"What are you doing here?" The DI asked.

"I need to speak to my brother, urgently and privately if you would." Mycroft's voice was just as firm as it always was.

Sherlock and John traded looks, satisfied to see the other just as confused about the entire situation. Lestrade caught their eye and motioned for them to join him. Better meet with Mycroft away from the crime scene.

"Brother mine," Mycroft greeted. "I need to speak with you. It's about the May affair."

Sherlock froze abruptly. He hadn't been moving around before, but now there was a stiff stillness as if he'd suddenly become one of the many corpses he observed to solve cases. "Where?"

"My car?" Mycroft offered.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. That was enough to unnerve John. "No."

Mycroft looked around. "There?" He pointed to the hotel they stood in front of.

"Sure." Sherlock agreed, beginning to walk that way.

Mycroft lowered his head so as to be heard when he also lowered his voice. "I may not be able to confirm his return tonight, Detective Inspector," he told Lestrade, before looking to John. "You may want to follow us in, but... don't be in the same room."

John, for his part, had never seen Mycroft so grim and sad at once. He hadn't seen a lot of Mycroft Holmes, but whatever he was telling Sherlock obviously wasn't good.

Both John and Lestrade watched Mycroft follow Sherlock into the hotel foyer through a large set of glass doors.

John hesitated, giving Greg a concerned glance, before tailing them.

Upon entering the building, John saw a door close that was probably to some sort of parlor. He moved to stand beside it, waiting so he was near if needed but remembering Mycroft's request not to follow them to the same room. John was listening more out of concern than legitimate respect for the government official. He was still salty about the whole kidnapping thing that had happened when he first met Sherlock a few months prior. And why had Mycroft suggested his presence and not Lestrade's? What did the elder Holmes think would happen?

It was only a few seconds later that there was a deafening crash.

John's heart could have torn through his skin as he threw open the door. There was broken glass scattered across the polished wood of the floor, something dripping from the bar. Mycroft was holding Sherlock up by his arms, helping him sit on one of the stools.

"What happened?" John asked, rushing forward and ignoring the cacophony of his heart and the crunching glass.

"Help," was all Mycroft could say, grunting slightly under the effort of holding his brother upright.

John got behind the Consulting Detective and supported his back, reaching a hand for a pulse. It was racing. "What happened?" He repeated, more insistent.

"I had to deliver bad news. He was pacing, I was talking, he stumbled into the counter and knocked a tall bottle off of the bar." Mycroft fired at a rapid pace. "I don't believe he's going into shock but he did rather quickly retreat into his mind palace."

John saw that Mycroft still seemed strained in worry, but all John could do was monitor his friend – breathing was accelerated but not dangerous, heart rate the same as that.

After a moment, Sherlock released a heavy sob, sagging in his seat. John stumbled slightly as the detective's weight was completely removed from him.

Mycroft had pulled his younger brother forward into an intense and strong embrace. The curly head of dark hair tucked into his shoulder and Sherlock's arms simply sagged down toward the floor. Mycroft clung tightly to him, his hands pressed solidly against Sherlock's back.

And Sherlock cried.

John stood there, in a complete lack of understanding, feeling distressed for his friend and concern for his wellbeing, while also noting in horror that this was the most John had ever seen Mycroft touch Sherlock. John hadn't even seen them shake hands let alone embrace. This was out of character for both of them.

But it was so obvious at that moment that they were brothers, and that Mycroft cared about his younger sibling just as much as Sherlock trusted him.

Sherlock's hands slowly lifted to hook around the back of Mycroft's shoulders. His knuckles turned white from the grip they had there.

Mycroft's face was stone, not a single emotion breaking through the cracks. And that was how it was until Sherlock began to calm and finally spoke.

"I need to go."

Mycroft's mask immediately shattered, and John saw a moment of vulnerability in the older Holmes he hoped to never see again. "I know. I've arranged it."

"When?" Sherlock asked into his shoulder.

"Three hours."

Nothing in response. Then a deep breath, the inhale shakier than the exhale.

Sherlock slowly pulled away from his brother, straightening his shoulders. John took a step backward, the glass crunching underneath his feet.

The Consulting Detective's head was lowered. "Can you explain it to him?"

Mycroft looked heartbroken at the exhaustion in his brother's voice, but he glanced to John. The doctor was nearing panic, and the older Holmes didn't hold it against him, given the unexplained circumstances in which he'd found himself. "I don't think I can, brother mine."

Sherlock didn't respond at first, but then he laughed. It was a hollow, broken sound. "Oh." He lifted his chin and turned in the stool to face John.

His friend was looking on in tar-thick concern, sympathy already present before Sherlock had even uttered a word. "My… someone died. There was an incident, earlier today." He sniffed. "I need to go to America to…" Sherlock's throat closed, stinging painfully as he tried to swallow. He rubbed angrily at his red eyes that were once again brimming with tears.

John grabbed the detective's wrists gently, concerned his friend was hurting himself. "Hey, it's all right – it's fine."

"No, it isn't." Sherlock corrected immediately, allowing John to hold his hand still. "It isn't and I need to… I need to go to America to attend a funeral."

John seemed floored by something. "Whose funeral, Sherlock?"

The man took a halting breath. "Samantha May Holmes." He gave John a shaky smile. "My adopted daughter."

John felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "Your… your what?"

Sherlock removed his hand from John's grasp. "My daughter. Adopted."

John looked around, not seeing anything as his brain tried to comprehend the information he'd just been given. "Oh. And she… she died." John felt his heartbreak all over again. "Oh, Sherlock."

The detective waved a hand in the air dismissively. "None of your concern. You didn't know she existed until just now."

"But Sherlock…" John couldn't comprehend the pain of the man in front of him. It must have been immense. "Your daughter."

Sherlock's face contorted into something akin to agony before he buried it in his hands again. Mycroft's hand lifted as if to be placed on Sherlock's shoulder, but a moment before, Mycroft hesitated and decided against it.

"Do you remember anything she wanted?" Mycroft asked softly.

It was a long moment before Sherlock answered. "Cremation. And to not be buried where…" Sherlock swallowed thickly, obviously trying to reign in his emotions. He swore softly. "I'm a mess."

And John felt he had every right to be.

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "That's all."

"I'll get it arranged." Mycroft hesitated. "Did she want her ashes spread or buried?"

Sherlock seemed to think about it. "She never said."

"What do you think she would have wanted?"

The detective looked ancient as he looked at the floor. "Not buried. Claustrophobic."

John felt like he was intruding on something incredibly private. Something nearing intimate. Yes, he considered himself and Sherlock friends, as they'd been through quite a few life-threatening situations even though they'd only known each other for a few months. But this was something beyond what they'd already faced. This was... darker. Vulnerable. Painful. All at once.

And it was not something he ever expected Sherlock to willingly allow him into.

Only a few minutes later, John and Mycroft were at either of Sherlock's arms, not touching him but almost protecting. Guarding him as they exited the parlor and then the building. They were quiet and most of the scene had already been cleared up. One of the few officers remaining that cared enough to spare them more than a look was Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The DI made eye contact with John, who tried to smile reassuringly but it seemed to only put Greg on edge. John would phone him later. He had more important things to worry about now.

They did get into Mycroft's car, without a single objection from Sherlock. He merely slid into a seat and stared at where his hands rested in his lap. John watched worriedly, trading a look of question with Mycroft who had no obvious comforts to give.

The drive to 221B was made without a single word spoken. When they got out of the vehicle, Sherlock stumbled up to the door without even looking at his brother.

John, however, did look back to Mycroft, who was still in the vehicle. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Dr. Watson," Mycroft told him plainly. And he left the statement there, with no explanation, driving off.

John heard a rattle and a muttered swear before facing the door again.

Sherlock had dropped his keys.

Surprised by that fact alone, John watched mutely as the Consulting Detective lifted the set from the step and tried once more to insert the correct key into the lock. There were no issues that time and the door slid open.

They both made their way upstairs, still not speaking a word. John decided he wouldn't pressure the detective into saying anything, instead leaving him to grieve in whatever length of silence he liked.

But then, softly, without turning around, Sherlock called for him. "John?"

"Yes?" The doctor responded immediately, trying not to ask every question pressing into the back of his teeth.

A pause. "Will you go with me?"

That hadn't been what John expected. "To America?"

"Yes."

"Of course."

Sherlock turned half-way, looking at John more over his shoulder than directly. "We leave for the airport in forty minutes. Pack what you need."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading :) Feedback is nice, but I understand if you don't feel like leaving a review. I'll be back with the next chapter as soon as it's cooked up.

~Signature


	2. The Hindsight and the Library

A/N: The first chapter was more of an introduction to the situation, so this one is longer. I couldn't find a good spot to end it before, so... whatever. Let me know what sort of chapter length you all prefer. Unless you're reading this a few years in the future, in which case your opinions will have little effect on me because of how linearly we experience time. Thanks anyway.

* * *

"You have questions," Sherlock said from the adjacent seat from John. They were on a plane – more jet, actually – and had been for the last hour and a half. John had expected a commercial airline flight and had been surprised when they arrived at the airport with no line to go through. A check through security and then immediately onto what Sherlock briefly explained as being Mycroft's plane.

In hindsight, it shouldn't have surprised John at all, really.

But he did have questions, and he decided to be honest. "About a million, yeah."

Sherlock wasn't looking at him. "Where would you like me to start?"

"You've had a child this entire time I've known you?"

"Yes."

"How did I not notice?"

"Beyond your blatant disregard of the obvious clues?" Sherlock asked with a familiar animosity. "She lived in the United States for schooling. I could certainly have gotten her an education in the UK, but that's not what she wanted. So…" Sherlock shrugged.

John was frowning slightly. "Excuse me for being blunt, but… how did you of all people end up adopting a kid?"

Sherlock smirked and glanced at John. "It's a long story. I did a lot that visit, actually. Dealt with Mrs. Hudson's case in Florida and while I was there I also encountered Samantha and her biological father in the middle of a vacation."

Sherlock's smirk slipped from his face. "They were on vacation, he'd had just a little too much to drink, and what resulted was a crime that was surprisingly brilliant. Murder of the second degree, and a case that was nearly a six on my scale at the time. I had just finished with the Hudsons, so I snatched it up."

"Wait, Samantha's father was the murderer?" John asked.

"I didn't know it at the time, of course. I'd never met her. But when he became a suspect, I went to the cabin they were staying in to question Samantha specifically."

"Why her first?" John asked, wondering why Sherlock would have questioned what he could only guess was a child at the time before an adult.

"Because if I started with her father, he could manipulate her into lying to fit his story."

That made sense. "But how did you do that? Did you have an in with the law enforcement?"

"Not at all. I pretended to be an electrician." Sherlock said. "Samantha opened the door. I told her who I was and why I was there. I knew her father wasn't present at the time, but I reassured her it was routine and that he'd called me in to fix their air."

When Sherlock paused, John frowned. "What then?"

"Well, I watched as she immediately locked the screen between us," Sherlock admitted, a small smile returning to his face. "And then she told me that her father wouldn't have called for help. He's too stubborn. I had immediate respect for her as she'd detected so quickly I wasn't who I said I was. And the respect only grew when she asked me why I wanted to see her alone."

"She'd put that together?" John was surprised. "How old was she?"

"At the time? Around twelve, I believe." Sherlock answered with a small amount of hesitancy before moving back into his story.

"I told her everything. I didn't leave a single detail out, describing to her all of my evidence that pointed to her father as the main suspect. The entire time I spoke, she was silent. When I'd finally finished, she asked me a single question: 'You think my father is capable of murder?' And I responded with my belief that everyone is. All one needs are the correct conditions."

"What did she say?" John asked.

"She didn't. Only unlocked the door and let me in. The case was short work after that. And, I'll admit, we… bonded." He didn't seem satisfied with the word.

"Bonded?" John couldn't help his tone.

Sherlock didn't take offense, only giving him that smirk once more. "Life or death situations tend to do that for you. And Samantha was the first person who questioned me without animosity or condescension. Just… genuine curiosity. The first person to also honestly compliment me without floundering in my intelligence. All of this from a child who had experienced consistent negativity." Sherlock looked out of the window, his next words slightly muffled. "And… she trusted me. With her life."

It was suddenly brought to John's remembrance that they were speaking of someone who had recently died. The way Sherlock talked about her was full of vivid personality. It was hard for John to remember that she was no longer around.

"Sherlock…" John wasn't sure what he was even planning to say, but it didn't matter because Sherlock cut him off.

"With her life, John." His words were sharp, but it was obviously self-directed. "She trusted me with her life. And I let her…" Sherlock bit his lip hard, pressing his hair against the wall of the plane.

John looked at the detective directly. "You didn't kill her, Sherlock."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked.

"How did she die?" John countered.

"Terror attack at a museum she frequented. It looks like immediate death from head trauma. But had she not been hit so hard in the head, she would have died of internal bleeding. The reaction time of the emergency service wasn't nearly fast enough because they had to unbury the victims before they could even begin to treat them." Sherlock's voice was droning.

It was increasing in intensity as he continued. "And had I told her no – had I used my authority and had her go to school in the UK for the remaining portion of her degree – she wouldn't have been in America in the first place, let alone in that museum, looking at a painting she could have easily looked up on the internet."

John stared at him for a silent moment. "You couldn't possibly know that."

"Yes, I could."

"No, what I'm saying is that you couldn't have possibly known if – even had you done all of that – she wouldn't be dead right now from something else. And then we would still be on our way to her funeral and you would be blaming yourself for that, too."

Sherlock stared at him.

John shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but that's the truth of it. I know very little about Samantha – very little – but if she's anything like I'm thinking she was, then I can tell you this for certain; she wouldn't want you thinking over the limitless what-ifs. They're pointless now."

Sherlock's face fell into something both sad and reminiscent. "Foresight is tunnel vision."

John blinked, confused. "Exactly that, yes. Why…?"

"Samantha told me that," Sherlock admitted. "Foresight is tunnel vision while hindsight is twenty-twenty. The first time she said it, she'd knocked her glass over while trying to pour water into it because she'd forgotten to hold onto the bottom." The detective smiled slightly, just for a moment. "She wasn't very coordinated."

John smirked and looked away, glad to be back on friendlier topics than self-blame.

But he wasn't sure how long it would stay that way.

* * *

John didn't have a lot to say about the state of Ohio. The area they were in was relatively flat and in the midwestern section of the United States. It reminded him of the desert, how one could see for miles in all directions. The only difference was that this flat land was flooded with plants. Fields only broken up by small towns and stretches of trees that weren't even a square kilometer.

Mycroft had indeed arranged everything, as someone was already there at the airport with a vehicle. He introduced himself to them as their chauffeur. No name, just position. John didn't blame him, wondering half-heartedly what trouble the poor bloke had gotten into in order to get the job of a personal driver for the duration of their stay.

Sherlock didn't utter a syllable of complaint.

They were driven to a small hotel, a bed-and-breakfast, in what was apparently the town Samantha lived in during the summer. This was when John found out that Samantha had a living relative; her grandmother.

Martha Karnes was her name, but John didn't meet her the first day. He was surprised that Sherlock's first destination wasn't to visit Martha, but instead the local library.

They walked in the doors and were greeted by two staircases; a short one leading down into a brightly-colored area with bookshelves neatly filled with children's books, and a long one leading up high enough the one couldn't see over the top of them from the bottom.

Sherlock went up, and John followed.

Upon mounting the top step, there was a large room with shelves against every open wall and standing upright in the middle. Toward their left was a large, semi-circular desk with computer monitors and barcode scanners perched atop. The atmosphere was rather warm even with the ancient-looking florescent lighting.

Standing at the desk was a woman who looked to be in her early fifties, her hair the color of the duller autumn leaves on the ground outside with a few silver strands interwoven. Her glasses were perched on her nose in classic librarian fashion and from her purple lanyard hung a tag that read "Amelia".

Sherlock approached the librarian, his eyes scanning her gently, taking in the evidence of a life the woman had lived and the home she'd built. The instruments she played and the husband she loved. The genuine warmth in her smile as she greeted him and asked how she could help.

He hesitated, his memory interfering with his present for the briefest of moments. "Hello, Amelia. You don't know me, but I know you. Mostly through stories." He offered his hand over the desk, ignoring how it trembled slightly. "I'm William Holmes."

Amelia's eyes filled slightly with tears. "Oh." She looked down at his hand for a moment before briskly walking away.

John and Sherlock watched her, confused. Sherlock was sure he'd been friendly. John was trying to figure out who William was.

Amelia walked all of the way around the long desk to approach him without a barrier and, instead of taking his hand, embraced him tightly.

Sherlock felt his breath leave him in his shock.

He didn't return the embrace, but he did allow it. All he could think was how Amelia didn't dye her hair. And how Amelia loved cooking. And how Amelia had the funniest jokes Samantha had ever heard. And how Amelia had a cat named Walrus who insisted on hiding cat toys in Amelia's shoes.

And how much Samantha cherished Amelia.

"Samantha loved you."

Sherlock and Amelia said this nearly in unison.

The latter laughed, and it was a sweet sound. Like soft bells. Amelia released him, slightly awkward as they returned to strangers. "I know it. She was never quiet about loving anything." She paused. "Sam never told me much about you."

Sherlock smirked. "That's not really a shock. I'm hard to explain."

"You look younger than I thought you would be."

"I'm not her biological father," Sherlock admitted carefully.

This shocked Amelia, and that surprised Sherlock.

Sherlock looked around the nearly-deserted library. "It's all a long story."

Amelia shook her head. "You don't have to tell me any of it. All that matters to me is that you mattered to her. I know this doesn't mean a lot, coming from a complete stranger, but… I'm really sorry for your loss."

Sherlock tipped his head. "Thank you."

Amelia glanced at John and held her hand out to him. "I'm Amelia."

John took it. "John Watson. I'm a friend of… William's."

"Samantha worked here." Sherlock finally explained. "Before she went to university, and then in the summers while she was in town."

Amelia was nodding. "She loved being here. Loved the books."

John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking around with an intensity he recognized. "Tell me something I don't know about her."

When silence followed the detective's request, John looked back at Amelia. She seemed confused and thoughtful. "Her... Her favorite section to be in was the Nonfiction stacks. She didn't seem to like nonfiction, but she loved being back there. She would sit on the stool back there and just... look at the shelves during her short breaks."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in the direction Amelia had gestured and picked his way that direction.

Amelia and John watched him go for a moment.

"You didn't know her," Amelia mentioned.

John turned to the librarian. "No. No, I didn't. But I think I would have liked to."

She smiled, and John smiled back. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to make sure he doesn't ruin anything."

"Does he do that?" Amelia didn't sound concerned, more amused.

"Sometimes," John admitted.

"Like father like daughter."

Thinking on the response, John moved in Sherlock's direction. He noted that Amelia stayed by the desk as if worried she would be intruding if she followed. John respected that.

When he reached Sherlock, the man was seated in the stool looking at the shelf as if for answers.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock shook his head. "Of course. 741.2 is the number for drawing technique. And 741.9 is collections of drawings." Sherlock pointed further down the unit. "Typical. And..." He twisted so he faced the shelf opposite and then looked up. "821."

John peered at the shelf his friend indicated. "Poetry."

"She's a fan."

The more John thought about it, Samantha and Sherlock had to be two completely different people. A girl who would spend her time in a library sounded like someone Sherlock would have taken a liking to, but using all of her breaks at work staring at the art and poetry sections wasn't something John would have associated with a liking of Sherlock Holmes.

John looked down at his flatmate, as the stool made him shorter than John by half. "Learn something you didn't know?"

Sherlock didn't make a move to respond. Not for a while. But then, as he stood, he answered. "Perhaps."

* * *

"What was all that about, then?" John asked later. They had just left the library and were in the car headed toward their hotel.

"My first name is William. Sherlock is my second."

"That's all well and good, very helpful, but I wasn't referring to your name."

Sherlock frowned, looking over at his flatmate. "Then what were you referring to?"

"You being genuinely polite to Amelia." John paused. "No, wait, not polite. Actually _kind_. What was that about?"

Sherlock hesitated, looking out the window. John reluctantly accepted that this would be a question that would go unanswered.

But then, a few moments later, John heard Sherlock begin to speak softly.

"She was in the hospital once. Bronchitis. Not technically fatal, but it was severe enough to cause us great concern. I distinctly recall sitting with her in the hospital room, having her turn to me and tell me what she wanted me to do if she died."

John thought that was a rather morbid thing for a child to be thinking about. Sherlock would have agreed, looking back at it, but at the time he'd been curious and allowed her to speak.

"She listed things," Sherlock continued. "She wanted to be cremated because it didn't turn her corpse into an object. She didn't want to be buried near her father's family. I was to attend the funeral, even if we'd become arch enemies. And I needed to start compiling a list of people she loved or appreciated, and I needed to tell them for her. Just in case she'd forgotten to the last time she'd seen them."

John lifted his eyebrows. That was a high ask of a self-declared sociopath. But, John supposed, if a child was on their deathbed and had asked him to visit a stranger and deliver a positive message, he would have done it as well.

A slightly morbid smile brushed the doctor's lips. That at least explained why Sherlock knew the dying wishes of one so young who had been killed unexpectedly. None of the deduction that normally went with the deeply personal things Sherlock knew about people. Simply an honest conversation.

"Whenever Samantha would speak of work, she mostly mentioned Amelia," Sherlock added. "Random anecdotes that she either recalled from the day or something Amelia had told her. I had an entire file dedicated to the woman before I'd ever met her." He tapped a finger gently to his temple. "Samantha had a way with stories that made them vivid enough."

* * *

A/N: So, yeah. Chapter length. Let me know what you think. Thanks!

~Signature


	3. The Ashes

A/N: Facts: I'm back with another chapter, this one's shorter than the one before it, we'll all die eventually, gravity is active when your heart is beating, and there are 10 human body parts that are only 3 letters long (in English). Have a lovely day.

* * *

Martha Karnes was a thin elder woman with white hair and smile lines. John imagined she was probably a very happy woman, normally. But this wasn't normal. This was a grieving woman, and her smiles were much softer. A great deal faker than John assumed they would regularly be.

And John couldn't blame her.

They'd long past introductions, seated in the sitting room of Martha's home. She had an oxygen tank sitting next to her, the thin cord hooked underneath her nose and behind her ears. Her breathing wasn't very strong, and John could tell that, unless there was a dramatic improvement, the woman probably wouldn't live out the year.

In spite of this, she talked with Sherlock about the details of her granddaughter's funeral. When, where, if there would be a meal after, what would be served, etc. Everything Sherlock wished to know about whatever Mycroft and Martha had apparently arranged together.

All except one detail.

"And… what about her ashes?" Martha asked.

Sherlock hesitated. "I don't know."

"Not—"

"—with her father, of course not." Sherlock finished for her. "I know that if nothing else."

Martha thought for a moment. "When you think of Samantha finally resting, where would you imagine her doing that?"

Sherlock was shaking his head. "Where I spread the ashes won't—"

"Don't give me all of your logical, scientific mumbo-jumbo about how sentiment disregards reality." Martha scolded. "What we're talking about isn't _her_ peace, Will. She's gone. Funerals aren't for the dead." She took a breath that sounded painful, looking Sherlock in the eyes. "I want to know what would give _you_ peace."

Sherlock looked away from her. "I don't want you to ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because peace doesn't exist for me," Sherlock told her. "Not now."

The woman scoffed. "You're wrong again. But my telling you that probably means very little." She sighed. "The ashes need spread."

He paused. "What if I just didn't?"

"William—"

"What if I can't, Martha?" Sherlock said. "I've only known her for five years. Five. What if that wasn't enough? If sentiment is so bloody important then why can't I just hold on to it all? Put up a shrine in my flat?"

"I don't think your friend would approve," Martha mentioned, glancing at John.

The doctor shrugged and responded without missing a beat. "It certainly wouldn't be the weirdest thing to sit on our shelves. It might not even be the first set of ashes. I can never predict things like that when it comes to Sherlock."

Sherlock looked to John with disbelief in his eyes.

John smiled. "Samantha would be welcome in our flat any time."

The detective was taken aback. He looked back at Martha silently.

The older woman's brow furrowed, her lips pinched together for a moment. "Just… take her with you."

Sherlock paled slightly. "I was being facetious."

"I'm not," Martha said. "You and I both know that she wouldn't want to stay here anyway."

He stared at her. "If I did, that would be the end of it."

John was surprised. Not just by the oddness of the discussion, but also Sherlock's acknowledgment of Martha's opinions on the subject. He was reminding the woman that, if Sherlock did take Samantha's ashes back to London, Martha wouldn't have them. He would be taking her granddaughter with him and Martha probably wouldn't see her again. It had a ringing finality that would make anyone uncomfortable, John was sure.

Martha only smiled. "I'm old, but that means I've been a fool long enough to gain a bit of wisdom. Samantha was happier with you. There's no denying that. I was only there for her when it was convenient for me."

"I can hardly say any different." Sherlock tried.

Martha narrowed her eyes. "She might have had a knack for forgetting the time-zone difference from here to London, but I didn't. I know how late those phone calls went when she needed someone to talk her down."

"But—"

"Sherlock Holmes," Martha cut him off, looking older than she had before, and far more tired. "Take your daughter home."

Sherlock looked at the woman in front of him and tried to find something to tell her. Something beyond what he really felt. He understood that when he held the urn that it would contain what was left of Samantha. But it didn't feel real to him to be talking as if that was all that made her up in the first place. He'd seen too many corpses to know that a person isn't their body.

He could tell Martha needed this. She needed some sort of closure. Some sort of final goodbye. And his mind brought up a promise he'd made to Samantha while she sat on a hospital bed.

"She loved you, you know."

Martha met Sherlock's firm gaze and empty face with an expression of her own. Opposite in every way. Her sadness was blatant on her face, causing the smile lines to stretch, and her eyes were distant. "I know she did. Because she forgave me."

They didn't stay for much longer.

* * *

Sherlock was quiet when they returned to their room at the hotel. John didn't say anything, merely watching as Sherlock dropped onto the couch and settled into its cushions.

John's mobile buzzed in his jacket pocket. He didn't really want to check it. He'd told Sarah before he left that he wasn't going to be contacting her. He'd meant during the trip, but she'd taken it to mean at all and seemed perfectly fine with that. John didn't really blame her; a narrow escape from impalement probably wasn't the best first-date.

She'd already texted him since then but he'd been in the middle of meeting Martha at the time and hadn't responded. He wondered, as is phone buzzed once more if perhaps she was texting him again.

He couldn't think of anyone else.

But the buzzes continued. Longer now and with rhythm. A call.

He reluctantly dug his mobile from his pocket and found that it wasn't at all who he'd expected. He answered.

"John? It's Greg."

"What can I do for you?" John asked.

"Hey, listen... Mycroft told me you guys were in America, and that I shouldn't contact you, but this is kind of urgent."

John stopped walking toward the room that had become his bedroom for the duration of their stay. He pressed the speaker harder against his ear as if that would help him hear better. "What is it?"

"An explosion across the street from your flat. It's made a mess of itself."

John swore, running a hand over his face. "Okay. What's the damage?"

"All of your windows broke inward, so the glass is all over the floor."

"How about Mrs. Hudson?"

"She was toward the back of the house, so she's fine." Lestrade's voice had taken a softer note as if sensing John's immediate concern for his landlady. That went away for the next part, easily being replaced by a conspiring tone. "I'm to tell you it was a gas leak."

John frowned at the wording. "You don't think so?"

"I know it's not. Just made to look like one. I called you because I didn't think Sherlock would answer."

John looked over his shoulder at the Consulting Detective, lying on the couch with his eyes closed and brow furrowed. "Yeah, he wouldn't have."

There was a pause over the line. "Are you two all right?"

John hesitated. "Not really, no. But we could use a distraction."

Lestrade seemed to hesitate. "Okay. Well, there wasn't much left of the place. Only a box. A very strong box."

John frowned. "Weird. What was inside?"

"An envelope addressed to one Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor once more glanced at his friend. Sherlock's eyes were open now, curiously observing John's every move. John clenched his jaw for a moment. "I'm going to put you on speaker."

* * *

A/N: I almost forgot - thanks for the follows and favorites, you guys! I don't know who you are but I appreciate your continued existence.

~Signature


	4. The Game

A/N: I felt a lot of inspiration today + My day off = New chapter. Enjoy... Or don't. Whatever you want, I guess.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson arrived in London two days later near four in the morning. They stopped at their flat for the briefest of moments to drop off their things from the trip.

Sherlock took the time to note the recent cleaning of the place. Not a single speck of glass to be seen and there were new windows. He would need to thank his brother, no doubt.

He also took the time to set a small urn on the mantle of the fireplace, directly next to the disembodied skull. For a moment, he was caught up in a memory of Samantha picking a name to call it.

John stopped to watch his friend carefully adjust the urn before backing away slowly. When Sherlock turned, John made eye contact. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. "Let's go to the Yard then. Settle Lestrade's panic."

By the time they did get to Scotland Yard, it was open and Lestrade was in and waiting for them. He looked the pair up and down, apparently able to tell neither of them really slept on their plane. "You come here straight from the airport?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock said. "It's not like there's a bomber on the loose."

He brushed past the Detective Inspector, and John tried to look apologetic. "He's in a rough spot right now." John kept his voice lowered as he and Greg followed Sherlock. "Just… give him a little extra forgiveness?"

"Yeah, sure," Lestrade said, his face concerned as he regarded John and thought about the implications of the request.

They passed Sergeant Sally Donovan on the way to Lestrade's office. She tried to glare at Sherlock but he didn't even look in her direction. John was sort of proud of that.

They entered Lestrade's office, and sitting on the man's desk was an envelope.

Sherlock paused and observed it from a distance. "You haven't opened it?"

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade responded.

Sherlock approached it as Lestrade spoke. "We've x-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring," Sherlock said, hesitating even in his sarcasm before lifting the envelope from the desk. He carried it over to the lamp, holding it close to the bulb. "Nice stationery. Bohemian."

Lestrade frowned. "What?"

"From the Czech Republic." Sherlock expanded. "No fingerprints?"

"No."

Sherlock looked closer at his name, written on the front by hand. "She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold, iridium nib."

John frowned. "She?"

"Obviously."

John found himself smirking, relieved at hearing a bit of Sherlock's arrogance come back full-force. He never knew he would have been happy to see it.

The Consulting Detective grabbed Lestrade's letter opener and carefully opened the envelope. He looked inside, feeling a pulse of shock wash down his spine. As he pulled the object from its packaging, he could practically feel John's surprise as it mirrored his.

"But that's the phone, the pink phone," John remarked.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like…" Sherlock trailed off, looking that the Detective Inspector with a bit of irritation. "The Study in Pink? You read John's blog?"

Lestrade blinked. "Of course I read his blog. We all do. Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"

Sherlock glared at him for a moment before returning his attention to the phone in his hand. He noted the lack of scratches around the plug-ins. "It isn't the same phone. This one is brand new. Someone's gone through a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." Sherlock looked at John.

John looked away, ignoring the accusatory glance.

Sherlock returned to the phone, powering it on. Immediately, it alerted him of a new message. He played the message. No voice, only the sound of the Greenwich Time Signal. Pips.

Sherlock frowned, the message sinking in as he checked the mobile phone for anything else.

"Is that it?" John asked.

"No, that's not it," Sherlock said, just as he opened the gallery to find a photo. As he looked at the image, Lestrade approached to look over his shoulder.

There was a familiar image on the screen of an unfurnished room with a fireplace and peeling wallpaper.

"What are we supposed to make of _that_?" Lestrade asked, annoyed. "And estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips."

Sherlock, however, understood completely. "It's a warning."

John looked to his flatmate, noticing how he stared thoughtfully toward the wall. "A warning?"

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seed, orange pips, things like that." He looked at John. "Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again."

Sherlock looked back to the photo on the screen before brandishing the device at them and beginning to leave Lestrade's office. "And I've seen this before."

John frowned, following Sherlock physically as he also tried to keep up mentally. "Hang on, what's going to happen again?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, turning back to John. " _Boom_."

* * *

What followed was a stretch of events they couldn't have predicted. Hostages. More bombs.

Five pips: A set of trainers that belonged to the victim in Sherlock's first case. He was given twelve hours: solved in nine. Clostridium botulinum.

Four pips: An abandoned car with blood on the seats. Sherlock was given eight hours: solved in five. Not a murder, but a relocation.

Three pips: A photograph of a famous – dead – woman, Connie Prince. Sherlock was given twelve hours: solved in eleven. Murder by botox. The bomb went off anyway; 12 dead.

Two pips: View of the South bank of the Thames, where a body is found. An astronomer who is also security for an art gallery. There was, in the beginning, no restriction of time.

But the Vermeer painting that had shown its face only days ago in the news was a fake. Recorded to having been destroyed centuries before, but now that it's returned it was worth thirty million pounds.

A good fake. An assassin by the name of Golem. A broken pattern. It put Sherlock on edge that the bomber hadn't called. Hadn't reached out through anyone. No new voice. But he knew more lives were at stake. Of course they would be.

But it almost felt like poetic justice. The bombing would happen – more people would die – if he didn't go to an art gallery. And there was silence. Not a single warning.

Samantha would have laughed at the irony.

He stared at the painting, phone in hand. "It's a fake. It has to be."

Miss Wenceslas, the newest owner of the lost Vermeer, scowled. "That painting has been subjected to every test known to science."

Sherlock conceded with a tip of his head. "A very good fake, then." He turned to face her. "You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"

Miss Wenceslas turned away, toward one of Sherlock's company; Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Inspector, my time is being wasted." She sounded exasperated. Or, perhaps, nervous. "Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"

A ring snatched the air from the room.

Sherlock took the pink phone from his pocket and answered the call, putting on the speaker. "The painting is a fake."

Nothing from the other end. Complete silence.

Everyone, even those who didn't know what the phone meant, waited with bated breath.

"It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." Sherlock reiterated.

Still nothing. He felt his anxiety spike and found himself double checking the display to make sure he'd answered the call and not accidentally declined it. "Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a _fake_. I've solved it. I've figured it out; it's a fake! _That's_ the answer – that's why they were killed."

Still nothing.

Sherlock took a deep breath to try and calm his racing heart and frayed nerves. He needed to focus. "Okay, I'll prove it." He said, already looking at the painting. Would they answer now? "Give me time. Will you give me time?"

There is the smallest moment of silence in which Sherlock was sure there would be no time given and whoever it was on the other end would be in multiple pieces all over some wall. A building collapsed with who knew how many injured.

But then the voice came.

And the truth was much worse than he'd imagined.

"Ten..."

Sherlock's heart stopped as his mind registered and instantly placed the voice. Cold rushed through his veins as he realized with a sudden intensity that it was only a child.

"It's a kid." Lestrade's horrified words brought Sherlock back to himself.

"What did he say?" John asked.

" _Ten_." Sherlock quoted, whipping around to the painting and pulling every emotion he felt away from the surface so he could focus.

So he could work.

"Nine…" The voice was warbling, and Sherlock ignored it.

"It's a countdown. He's giving me time." Sherlock's mouth spouted without consultation.

Lestrade cursed.

"The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? _How_?"

"Eight…"

In a flash, Sherlock was facing Ms. Wenceslas. "This child _will_ _die_. Tell me why the painting is a fake. _Tell me_!"

She flinched in the face of his intensity, but he didn't have time for her reaction or her answer.

"S-seven…"

"No, shut up, don't say anything." Sherlock decided, turning back to the painting. "It only works if I figure it out."

He blocked out everything, vaguely aware of movement behind him but uncaring. It must be possible. " _Must_ be possible. Must be staring me in the face."

"Six…"

"Come _on_." That was John.

"Woodbridge knew, but _how_?" He was no artist, Sherlock knew that for certain. He was a security guard. An astronomer in his leisure. Not an artist.

An astronomer.

"Five…"

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade pointed out worriedly.

" _Sherlock_ ," John said his name urgently. Forcefully.

And just at that moment, Sherlock's eyes fell on three tiny white dots of paint there in the night sky portrayed in the artwork. And his mind connected the pieces. But was it true? What was it called? He couldn't remember. It must be exactly correct.

"Four."

Sherlock wasted no time in shoving the pink phone into John's hands and yanking his own out of his pocket. Rapidly typing _Astronomers_ …

"Three."

…and _Supernovas_ into the search engine.

It was taking too long to load.

"Two."

And there it was.

He grabbed the phone from John and shouted into it. "The Van Buren Supernova!" He didn't care how much desperation was in that single phrase. How much fear colored his tone.

There was a pause thicker than drying paint.

Then…

"Please… is somebody there?" The boy's voice came through the speaker.

Sherlock released a breath he hadn't recalled holding, his knees going weak. He held the phone out toward Lestrade. "There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up."

Lestrade took the device.

John stood near Sherlock's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock clenched his fingers into fists to try and stop their shaking. "The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. An exploding star that only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight."

"So how could it have been painted in the sixteen-forties?" John finished, looking past his friend to the painting on the wall.

Miss Wenceslas was in a state of shock, staring at her painting without movement until the Yard took her into custody.

* * *

It was supposed to be a distraction. Sherlock had taken it as such. The game. The risk. All a distraction, to him as well as the bomber. Sherlock from his pain. The bomber, who Sherlock could confirm was Moriarty, from his boredom.

Sherlock had pieced together a description of sorts. From Miss Wenceslas, Sherlock could confirm Moriarty was male. And influential. From the hostage of the third bomb, he could add that Moriarty's voice was soft. Not entirely relevant to discovering who he was, but it was information enough to get twelve people killed.

Moriarty put together a distraction that only served to throw Sherlock back into the pain he wanted to hide from.

The Lost Vermeer.

Samantha had mentioned it before. Only a few months previously. She'd brought it up during one of their phone calls, how she had found an interesting new artist. Johannes Vermeer. But some of his paintings had been lost.

However, as her mind tended to do, she drifted onto the subject of losing other things, and whether people would ever compile a list of things that they had also lost.

And she'd asked if Sherlock had ever lost anything he would have really liked back.

He couldn't recall what answer he'd given her.

There was a buzz.

Sherlock's eyes drifted to the source; the pink phone.

He lifted it, his heart already racing, to find a text from an unknown number. It read: _We get along quite well._

Sherlock stared at it for a moment, unsure of how to respond.

He didn't have to, as another message appeared in the inbox.

 _I've been looking forward to this for a long time. Meet me?_

Sherlock stared at the screen for a moment before hitting reply. _Where?_

 _You choose._

An idea came to mind. Sherlock quickly typed his response and sent it. He thought, only for a brief moment, how he wouldn't be able to tell John he was leaving; the doctor had gone to get milk and beans nearly twenty minutes ago.

Sherlock frowned and stood, grabbing his scarf and coat. He didn't have to tell John. He'd be back. Probably.

For a moment, the Consulting Detective was floored by how little he cared for his own life.

But then he reminded himself; if Moriarty had wanted him dead, he wouldn't be alive to think about it. That was simply the truth of the matter. So he elected not to worry and tossed on his coat before pocketing his phone and walking toward the door.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again for following this story. Means a lot to me and my cat. He likes to sit on me when I type, so he appreciates the motivation you provide.

~Signature


	5. The Pool

A/N: Hi. Here's that thing you wanted. And more action, yay!

* * *

Sherlock entered the room that housed the pool in which Carl Powers died. The webs of light reflecting off of the pool dancing as something slight – probably just the air from the heating – disrupted the surface as he looked around. He was very aware of the total darkness that encompassed the observation balcony that was suspended above him.

Sherlock approached the water, feeling unsettled for a reason he couldn't place, and glanced at his watch. It was midnight.

"Well?" Sherlock once more cast a look around for movement. "I'm here. You wanted to meet with me and I came." As stupid as that was, he added internally. But when no reply made itself known, Sherlock lifted his chin and turned in a slow circle. "Unless you're too afraid, even after all of that show."

When his back was to the pool, a door opened further down the way. He twisted to look at it, his heart hammering his ribcage as he waited, impatiently, for Moriarty to step out into the open.

But it was someone else instead.

His mind stalled, unable to process the visual input provided to him.

"Evening," greeted John Watson.

Sherlock found himself unable to move, the shock of it all washing over him as if he'd just jumped into the pool.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John added as if to urge him to speak.

"John." Sherlock felt all of his strength leave him, his brain forcing together pieces that shouldn't belong, before tearing them roughly apart again. "What…?"

"Bet you never saw this coming," John told him.

Sherlock twisted slowly around before stepping toward the man he'd considered his friend. They'd barely known each other for very long. And already, John Watson had saved his life nearly a dozen times over.

All of that… For nothing? For show?

But there was no way John could be Moriarty.

Unless there was, and Sherlock simply couldn't see it.

As Sherlock stared at John, the other man's face fell into an expression of poorly-concealed despair as he pulled open his hooded jacket.

To expose a bomb strapped to his chest with a sniper laser settled on top.

Sherlock's eyes immediately left John, his brain connecting pieces rapid-fire.

John hadn't known about Carl Powers. Hadn't known about the Vermeer painting. About Janus cars. John hadn't known any of it. Sherlock knew John's tells and the doctor had exhibited none of them.

And John had gone to the store. Perfect opportunity for kidnapping.

"What would you like me to make him say next?" John spoke haltingly, obviously hating every second of it. "Gottle o' geer… gottle o' gear… gottle o' geer—"

"Stop it." Sherlock heard his voice snap.

"Nice touch, this." John continued to speak for Moriarty. "The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart."

Sherlock felt cold. He looked around, irritated and desperate. "Who _are_ you?"

At the far end of the pool, another door opened. Sherlock's eyes snapped to it, but he didn't see Moriarty first. He heard him. His voice was soft.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

As soon as Sherlock saw his face, he placed him. Molly's boyfriend, but also not. He shared the same face and was obviously the same person, but he acted in a completely different manner. No clumsiness, no awkwardness. Instead, he had the grace and elegance of a well-dressed man who knew his power and knew how to use it.

Sherlock reached for John's gun, which he'd tucked into his pocket before leaving his flat.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" Moriarty teased, obviously unafraid of the weapon entered into the scene.

Sherlock's silence rang in the pool until it was interrupted.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" His voice was almost sung. At Sherlock's responding silence, he elaborates. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" He began to approach.

Sherlock brought his other hand up to support the gun, keeping it aimed at Moriarty, who scrunched his face, almost looking disappointed.

"Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

As if cued by his words, the laser on John moved to the doctor's chest instead of the bomb. Sherlock frowned at it. It wasn't Moriarty who was the sniper?

"Don't be silly," Moriarty said, as if in response to Sherlock's thoughts. "Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

He stopped approaching, giving Sherlock a smug smirk. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

Jim Moriarty grinned, recognizing the catchphrase from _Jim'll Fix It_ Sherlock was referencing. "Just so."

"Consulting Criminal." Sherlock paused, thoughtful. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Jim agreed proudly. "No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

Sherlock cocked the gun in his hand, still pointed at Moriarty. " _I_ did."

"You've come the closest," Jim admitted, before continuing darkly. "Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty agreed, shrugging. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

Sherlock's attention wavered for a moment, noticing how John closed his eyes. He was probably soaked in adrenaline and was beginning to feel it take its toll. Sherlock tried to keep the worry from his face and his focus on the man beginning to approach them again.

"Take this a friendly warning, my dear. Back off."

Sherlock stared at Jim, feeling his arms weaken but holding them still. The man loved to talk, didn't he?

The answer must have been yes because he continued. "I have loved this little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T.—"

"People have died." Sherlock interrupted, his mind flashing with an image of a painting. A bomb.

"That's what people _do_!" Jim screamed furiously, his demeanor swapping to aggressive faster than Sherlock could blink. It was as if he were angry at Sherlock for even worrying about the body count.

But there was one particular body that was in that count that Sherlock cared very much about, and it fueled his hatred for the man in front of him, even if he had nothing to do with that particular bomb. "I will stop you." He promised.

"No, you won't."

Jim's words, spoken calmly, were no doubt exactly what solidified Sherlock's vow.

Starting with stopping Jim from adding bodies to the count. He looked at John. "Are you all right?"

John wouldn't even look in Sherlock's direction. Perhaps he'd been instructed not to communicate with him before it all unfolded.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead." Jim said, almost pleasantly but more with condescension.

And, in a way that was classically John, the doctor didn't directly follow the order. Instead of speaking, he simply made eye-contact with Sherlock and nodded.

Sherlock looked back at Moriarty. "Why did you want to meet with me tonight?"

"Tonight? Oh, I have a gift. I even put your name on it." He said, stepping past John to be directly in front of Sherlock. "I thought it would be the perfect getting-to-know-you present."

John, having the opportunity before him, rushed forward and threw himself at Moriarty. He wrapped his arms tightly around the other man.

Sherlock took a surprised step backward, gun still pointed at Jim.

"Sherlock, run!" John urged, even as Jim laughed.

"Good! Very good."

Sherlock didn't move, knowing that it wasn't even close to over. He looked up at the balcony, wondering how the hidden sniper would act on John's move of the board.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." John practically growled into the Consulting Criminal's ear.

Jim ignored him completely. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're touchingly loyal."

This angered John and unsettled Sherlock. He knew every word the man said had to have meaning. Was he implying that he knew more about Sherlock than he let on?

"But you've shown your hand there, Dr. Watson," Moriarty added on.

Sherlock didn't notice anything different immediately, but John's expression changed from being resolute and determined to disheartened and horrified at once. For a flicker of a moment, Sherlock had a beam in his eye, and he knew that a sniper had settled its laser on him as well.

Moriarty was still laughing. "Gotcha."

John released him, lifting his hands in surrender.

Jim straightened his suit, before gesturing at it in indignation. "Westwood." He lowered his hands. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed." Sherlock knew it sounded careless to say it in such a manner, but he just didn't care about it anymore. He wanted John out of that building in one piece and breathing.

"Kill you? No, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty grinned, suavely. "I could anytime I wanted. And I will, but I won't be taking your life. You'll be handing it to me on a silver platter by the end of tonight, and I'll save it for something special."

He continued before Sherlock could even speculate the meaning of those words. "However, if you don't stay out of my business now that you're aware of me, I'll _burn_ you." His voice lowered into something near animalistic. "I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock told him.

Jim lifted his eyebrows. "But we both know that's not quite true."

Sherlock blinked, his mind going in hundreds of different directions with the one phrase.

Moriarty looked away and shrugged. "Well, I'd better be off." He casually looked around before returning his attention to Sherlock. "So nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock raised his weapon and extended it toward Moriarty's head. "What if I were to shoot you right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty said, unperturbed, with a wide-mouth expression that mimicked and mocked an expression of shock before he grinned instead. "Because I'd be surprised. I really would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. Though you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

Sherlock knew he was referring to the snipers that were still present in the pool.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty said, beginning to leave the way John came in.

"Catch you later," Sherlock said; another promise.

"No, you won't," Moriarty repeated, this time in a sing-song tone, as he exited the room.

* * *

A/N: That was fun, but there's more. Stay tuned.

~Signature


	6. The Return

A/N: Am I on a roll? No. Just already had this written from the beginning. Wish me luck ever continuing this thing. I'll do it, but I can't promise it will be in such a timely manner.

* * *

Sherlock's mind was whirling before the door even closed on Moriarty's exit. It wasn't over. Not at all. And what about all of those random hints Moriarty had thrown into the conversation? The comment about a gift – it wasn't John, as the doctor had already been present. And Sherlock certainly hadn't been aware of offering his life on a platter to the Consulting Criminal.

What was his strategy?

The door closed with a solid sound, and Sherlock didn't move for a few moments, waiting to be sure they weren't going to be shot down. Then his mind prioritized a list of concerns.

The first: John Watson.

He quickly bent and placed the gun on the floor before rushing to John and unfastening the vest the bomb was attached to. "You all right?" Sherlock asked.

John didn't answer, his head tilted back and his breathing heavy.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, more frantic this time.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Came John's breathless reply.

Sherlock's heart pounded the inside of his skull. He needed to get the bomb off and away. Off and away. Off and away.

"I'm fine," John repeated, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to accept it until the vest was off and away. Having undone the vest, Sherlock jumped around to John's back, trying to pull off the jacket and vest simultaneously.

"Sherlock—"

The detective interrupted his friend by finally managing to remove the jacket and vest with a rough tug that pulled John off balance.

"Sherlock!" John tried again to gain his attention.

Sherlock leaned over and threw the items across the floor so they only skimmed the surface, trying to get them as far away as he could. John staggered to regain the balance disrupted by his friend's anxiously vehement actions. That didn't, however, stop him from reaching up and removing the earpiece in his ear.

The delayed shock hit him, but Sherlock didn't see it as he ran toward the door Moriarty exited out of, looking for any sign of him.

But he was gone.

Sherlock swore, rushing to return back to the pool to make sure John was all right, his heart still beating like a madman in a cage.

John was seated then, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Sherlock was reminded then that this wasn't John's first scrape with death and felt mildly reassured. He began to pace, trying to do as John did and calm himself. But he couldn't get a hold on what a steady breath should feel like, let alone execute the experience.

"Are _you_ okay?" John asked him.

"Me?" Sherlock scratched his head with the barrel of the gun, hoping to bring himself back to his senses. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Fine."

Fine, even though he could barely breathe through the aching in his chest as he tried to get his breath back. A little adrenaline was fun, but this was ridiculous.

He looked at John. "That thing that you did – that you offered to do, that was, um…" He swallowed. "Good."

John seemed to have melted against the wall, all of his strength leaving him. "I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hm?" Sherlock questioned, concerned by how his hand shook and wouldn't stop but willingly distracted by John's words.

John was looking out toward the pool. "You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged. "People do little else." He looked down at John before smiling.

John snorted with a small laugh, leaning forward as if to stand. Before he could move, however, the beam from a sniper's laser brushed his chest. Having seen it, he went totally still, his face melting from humor to horror.

The door Moriarty entered from initially opened once more.

Trying to get a hold of himself, Sherlock exhaled sharply. Act two.

"Sorry, boys. I'm _so_ changeable." Moriarty's voice rang through the pool. "But there was one more item of business I forgot to bring up." He entered the room as he spoke, dragging with him a small figure.

Sherlock froze. His brain wouldn't compute what he was seeing. Maybe the chlorine was getting to him – or the lighting – or the lack of sleep – _something_. Something else. It wasn't true. It was impossible.

 _Samantha_.

His brain turned white hot, no thoughts coming or going as the only possible result struck hard against his senses. He felt himself trembling – rage, fear, faded adrenaline, he didn't know. All of it. John was saying something to him, but he couldn't hear anything beyond his own heart and breath.

Until a firm grasp on his shoulder. " _Sherlock_."

The insistent tone combined with the physical contact brought him back. His head whipped to John so fast he got a pain in his neck.

The doctor was staring at him. "Come on then."

Sherlock looked back to Jim Moriarty. The reptile was still holding onto the girl with a tight grip, a ridiculously smug look on his face. "Did I surprise you? I hope I did."

Sherlock said nothing, getting back to his feet and leveling the gun at Moriarty's head.

He would have pulled the trigger. He would have without a second thought or single regret. But his eye saw a small red dot light up against Samantha's irregularly pale skin.

Sniper.

Sherlock couldn't help the seething rage that overcame him.

"I did say there would be a gift, but like I said before; changeable." Moriarty smiled. "How about we make a deal?"

Sherlock didn't trust his tongue, so he didn't use it.

"This is a lot duller without pragmatics," Moriarty whined. "Would you like a deal or no?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked.

Jim's smile much like a wolf's would be, Sherlock imagined. Or a rabid dog. "A man wants a lot of things, Sherlock Holmes."

" _Today_ , please." Sherlock snapped impatiently.

"Sherlock," John muttered softly in warning.

"You look a little flustered," Moriarty noted. "How about… a trade."

Sherlock was frowning deeply. "Trade?"

"Life for a life."

This struck Sherlock as very final. Too final.

"Who?"

"Conditions?" Moriarty feigned surprise. "I thought she meant more to you than anyone in—"

" _Who_!" Sherlock snarled at him.

Moriarty smiled still. "You."

Sherlock's anger left him immediately. Moriarty had been planning this from the beginning.

On a silver platter, he'd said.

Genius.

Sherlock lowered the gun. "Deal."

"Sherlock—"

"Ah," Moriarty interrupted John's objection. "Glad for the tradeoff. I'll take you up on that." His grin turned malicious. "Someday." His face became milder. "However, today I'm rather busy. I'll be looking forward to talking again, Sherlock."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, wondering what he was planning.

Then, with a rather hard shove from Moriarty, Samantha stumbled and fell into the pool.

Sherlock dropped everything and sprinted toward her before diving into the water without a moment of hesitation.

She was sinking. Quickly. Sherlock wondered what Moriarty had put in her pockets. But he would _not_ be losing her now. Not _now_ – not to _this_.

Not if she really was Samantha.

He swam harder, cursing the fact it was the deep end of the pool. His lungs ached painfully for air when he finally grabbed a fistful of her coat. When he yanked it toward himself, he noticed a significant amount of soft red cloud trailed behind her and his worry and urgency increased tenfold.

When he broke the surface of the water, he was gasping painfully – half-choking on water he'd inevitably swallowed – and hadn't heard her do the same. Panic struck his heart. " _John_!"

"Here!" The doctor called from the edge of the pool.

Sherlock kicked with all of his strength and shoved Samantha toward the doctor.

John grabbed the shoulders of her coat and heaved her out of the water with a grunt of exertion. Sherlock struggled to pull himself out afterward, completely worn out from the entire event. When he could breathe well enough to get the spots out of his eyes, John was performing CPR. That wasn't good.

"Come on, Samantha," John whispered to her between compressions. "You can't die on him again."

Mid-compression, her eyes fluttered open and she gasped, gagging on water. John rolled her to her side and she coughed up liquid and vomited a bit of bile onto the floor.

Sherlock was overwhelmed by relief before remembering— "John, there was blood."

"What?"

"On Sam – _blood_." Sherlock was frantic, rushing over as quickly as his soaking clothes would let him. He tore at her coat, John helping when he could. She was trembling and only half lucid, still coughing. Her shirt was soaked in a deep red along her back.

"Phone." John pointed toward the ground where Sherlock had dropped it earlier.

The detective rushed over and grabbed it, using the second number on his speed dial.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, sounding slightly annoyed. Probably the time, as it was a just over a quarter past midnight.

"We are in need of an ambulance as soon as possible," Sherlock said before listing the address. "And this is not up for question or debate – there-there's blood and she almost drowned and..." His words failed him.

"They're on their way. Sherlock, what happened? Are you okay?"

"I can't…" Sherlock trailed off, looking at where his daughter was lying on her stomach, still coughing, with John trying to staunch the blood from her wounds. "It's not me that's the problem."

* * *

Samantha could feel pain. And she felt like she was choking. And she felt the rough bite of porous concrete against her cheek. She felt cold. She felt hungry. She felt a burning pain.

So much pain.

A voice; "You're all right, Samantha." Very soothing, but deliberate. "It's okay. You're safe now."

But was she safe? She couldn't decide. Not while her mind was foggy. Not when she didn't know who was talking to her.

"They're on their way."

She knew _that_ voice.

Samantha forced her eyes open. A pale hand rested on the ground near her face and a head very quickly met it. She found his eyes and felt tears come to her own. She coughed again, the reflex kicking in suddenly.

A hand on her head, gently brushing her hair. "I'm _so_ sorry." He whispered. "I had no… I didn't…" He was crying, too.

Samantha wanted to ask him why he was apologizing. "Will…"

"No, just…" He smiled, the expression a single crack in the sorrow that seemed to have overtaken him. "Just rest. Okay?"

That sounded nice.

Rest.

* * *

A/N: Now I'm going to rest. Kick my cat off of my lap and go to bed. Thanks for reading.

~Signature


	7. The End of the Beginning

A/N: I'm back, and I was correct when I said updates would be slower than before. Hope you enjoy anyway.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the wall across from him, as still as the empty chair on his left. Not even thinking. Barely breathing. Or maybe he was caught up in his thoughts. John couldn't figure it out, even as he approached from an outside perspective.

He sat in the empty chair and offered Sherlock one of the two cups of cheap coffee he held in his hands.

The detective took it from him as if out of reflex, holding it in his hands but making no move to drink it. John didn't address it – it tasted terrible anyway.

"This entire time."

John looked over at his friend, the quiet voice had come from him. "Sorry?"

"She's been alive this entire time," Sherlock whispered softly, John barely hearing him above the standard hospital rumble.

John nodded, not sure what to say.

Sherlock's eyes glazed over slightly. "Whose ashes are on the mantle?"

John imagined the question was rhetorical since he knew Sherlock hadn't expected him to have an answer.

They both were silent for a long stretch.

"Five days."

"What?" John didn't hear him, actually.

"He had her for five days," Sherlock repeated, loud enough for John to hear. "She was alive and I hadn't known. I should have insisted on seeing her before the cremation process."

John frowned. "Didn't Martha confirm her identity?"

"It's easy to fake a corpse when the cause of death was head trauma during an explosion," Sherlock said. "And when the identifier is an old woman with poor vision and no correctional lenses."

John looked away to the wall opposite of them for a moment before starting abruptly. "Has anyone phoned her yet?"

"Martha?" Sherlock asked, before shaking his head. "I haven't."

"She should know."

"Of course." Sherlock agreed immediately, but it sounded like a reflexive response.

John turned to him more directly, concern coloring his face and voice. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, dropping his head into his hands without a verbal response.

John eyed the head of curls with a thick hesitancy before he spoke again. "Sherlock…?"

There was a sharp exhale from the detective before he looked up again. "She's still _alive_ , John. She's been alive and I _missed_ it. I didn't _see_." His voice was still quiet but sharper than a blade's edge.

"You couldn't have known."

"I should have." Sherlock disagreed, his head snapping around to look at John directly for the first time since they arrived at the hospital. "I should have known."

"It wasn't your fault."

"You know, John, you're right." Sherlock agreed, bitterness in his voice. "It wasn't _my_ fault that the entire terrorist attack that killed thirty-five people in America – and injured forty-three more – was staged so someone _I_ cared about could be used against _me_."

"That's not—"

"And I was too scared to see her dead that I didn't confirm that she even was." Sherlock spat out the sentence with a venom that echoed self-berating. "I was too…." He struggled for the correct word, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

John shook his head. "You weren't too anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if at John's apparent idiocy. "I was—"

"Stop it, Sherlock." John's words weren't harsh nor were they particularly tender. His tone was mild but serious. "Stop it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do, actually, and you need to stop." John was grim. "Beating yourself up over something you can't go back and change. It's a pattern for you and it's unhealthy."

Sherlock was staring at him then. John was used to him staring. He did that to everyone, especially if he wanted to thoroughly understand them. It was like he could catch everything so long as he didn't blink. John had gotten past being uncomfortable with it after the first week.

"Pattern?" Sherlock asked.

"Foresight is tunnel vision." John quoted.

Sherlock looked as if he'd remembered something. Whether that something was the conversation they'd had on the plane to America or if it was the original memory of the phrase, John didn't know. And Sherlock never said.

They went back to looking at the wall without a word, both of them holding a room-temperature drink and waiting.

And waiting.

* * *

Sam couldn't breathe. She could barely move, her head too heavy. It took all of her existing strength to sit up, her arms made of bags of flour. She saw a room but had no idea what was in it. And a face, but not who it was. She flinched away, trying to curl up but hands were holding her down. She just wanted away. Away.

She needed help.

"Sam – Sam, it's okay." A familiar voice. "It's all right. You're safe."

Fake. It was _fake_ – and he wasn't _there_ – and this was a hallucination or—

"Samantha May, _look_ at me." Gentle but firm hands on her face.

No, _don't touch_ —

"Look at me."

Better to concede than be in more pain. She opened her eyes.

There, staring into her, was his face. His hands on her cheeks. His eyes meeting hers. His mouth moving to form words. "You're safe now."

Safe.

That's fake.

He looked so sad. "It's not fake. I promise it's not. I _promise_."

Tears shoved their way out of her eyes to race down her cheeks. She felt them get stuck between her skin and his palms.

"I'm not fake." He sounded almost desperate. She couldn't imagine William Holmes ever desperate.

She couldn't imagine…

"I'm _not fake_."

Couldn't imagine… so it must not be…

"You're safe."

Must not be imagined.

Her throat hurt. "Will?"

He looked immediately relieved, his eyes looking glossy.

" _Will_?" She asked again, almost desperate, reaching up and grasping his wrists.

He nodded.

She sobbed.

Sherlock moved instead to embrace her, holding her close to him. She was crying – hard. He could feel it in her shaking shoulders. Her arms were weak but gripping onto him with all of her strength. She cried. He felt near tears himself as an overwhelming relief poured over every other emotion.

Samantha was _alive_.

"I don't want to leave."

It was all Sherlock could do to even make out the words with her face pressed against his shoulder and tears slurring her words.

He squeezed her as tight as he dared.

"I don't… I don't want to…" Her sob sounded almost like a cough then. Her throat was still raw from the chlorine water.

He hushed her, trying to ignore the reflex to rub her back as it would probably pain her wound. "It's all right now."

They sat like that for a long while. Sherlock couldn't guess. He only knew it was long enough for his foot to go numb from how it was hanging off of the bed. And he didn't care.

She calmed eventually, her arms going mostly limp. But she didn't push away. She stayed there and allowed him to hold her. Sherlock brushed his fingers against her hair, feeling the tangle of curls – clean because of the nurses that cared for her.

Eventually – sometime after Sherlock's elbows began to tremble from the effort of holding her up – Sam's breathing evened out.

Sherlock paused for a moment. "John?" He called softly, unsure if his friend was still present.

"Here."

"Can you help me lay her back down again?"

With John's assistance, Samantha was laying properly in the hospital bed again. The nurse readjusted her wires and bandages, saying nothing about what she had witnessed.

Sherlock didn't move from where he was sitting on the edge of Samantha's bed.

After the nurse left, they were quiet for a long time. Sherlock continued to stare at his ward. John alternated between his friend and the girl.

"She's traumatized."

John startled at the abrupt words. "What?"

"She's traumatized, John," Sherlock spoke softly.

"Well…" John hesitated. "I would imagine, after all of that—"

"You misunderstand." Sherlock interrupted, his voice still very low. "Before all of this, she had a stress disorder developed from childhood trauma. Very mild, really. Or she'd gotten so far in recovery it was mild. She was… she was so highly functioning." Sherlock laughed, but it sounded more like he was going to cry himself. "She actually went to a _party_. On her _own_. One with loud music. She phoned me afterward." Sherlock sniffed. "Called to tell me that she'd felt close to a panic attack only once the entire night."

John felt his throat constrict, looking at the side of his friend's head. He saw Sherlock's eyes – already red and puffy – fill with hopeless tears.

"And now she has to start all over again."

* * *

A/N: Yeah, that's sad. Anyway, many MANY thanks to the reviewer Idris ' Doctor. _Love_ the Username, and I appreciate you. Here's an update for you!

~Signature


	8. The Time of Day

A/N: Sorry about the wait, you guys. Here's the next installment.

* * *

Samantha was awake before she opened her eyes. Sherlock knew but didn't urge her to stir, no matter how badly he wished to. He wanted her to be awake. To talk. To breathe.

He wanted her to be all right.

He knew she wasn't. He knew that she was probably in pain and exhausted. But selfishly Sherlock wanted her to open her eyes and give him the crooked smile she always had in reassurance.

Sam's eyelids fluttered for a moment before opening. The lights were dim; once Sherlock knew they were taking her off of an anesthetic, he'd only left on the dimmer lights that are typically on at night. He knew it would be easier on her after being asleep for so long. She squinted anyway.

"Hello, Samantha." Sherlock rubbed his thumb against the back of her knuckles, his hand already in hers.

She tipped her head to better face him, her eyes going to his face. After a moment, out came that crooked smile. "Hey, Will."

Sherlock smiled, relief flooding him momentarily. He squashed it down, knowing it was premature. "How are you feeling?"

The smile went away to be replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Sore, I think. And I have a headache."

Sherlock nodded his understanding, not comforted by the slurring of her speech. "Where are you sore?"

"Well…" She thought about it. "My neck. Mostly my joints."

Sherlock nodded again.

"And my back."

"Your back?"

"Yeah… right below my shoulder blades on either side of my spine." She elaborated after squirming as if to experiment. "But that's more of a sharp pain, actually."

Sherlock felt himself pale slightly. The doctor had told him what they'd found in that particular spot. Why she had been bleeding when Sherlock had pulled her out of the pool. It wasn't infected, and it wasn't dangerously deep, not having horribly damaged anything important. All of it was repairable.

And just deep enough to scar.

Her frown was locked in place. "I can't remember."

"What?" Sherlock broke out of his thoughts.

"It's not coming." She said. "I'm trying to remember what happened." Sam returned her eyes to him. "What happened?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. She didn't remember? He'd heard of this. Maybe she had experienced head trauma the doctors hadn't caught? Or perhaps this was a psychological block of some kind? That wouldn't particularly surprise him. The only real evidence of the events that transpired were the bruises and what was carved into her—

"Will?"

She sounded slightly panicked and that brought him back once more.

Sam had leaned forward, much more awake than before. Her eyes were intense even in the dim light, giving away her anxiety and concern without hindrance. She seemed to realize that there was something she was missing - something worse than what she'd been thinking of before.

Sherlock blinked, moving his mouth to try and force words to come out, but they wouldn't. None that he'd wanted to, anyway. Instead, he asked her gently "Do you remember what happened at the art museum?"

She furrowed her brow, confused. But only for a moment.

Her eyes flicked back and forth across the blanket on her lap as she seemed to rethink and gather what she could remember. He could see the moment she understood. Her eyes widened and her heart rate spiked on the monitor across from him.

Slowly her eyes lifted from the blanket to meet his. "How much of it was real?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw so hard it physically hurt before he could respond. "I don't know."

"Why not?"

"This is the first time you've been coherently conscious since the pool."

Samantha blinked. "The pool." She looked away. "Who was he?"

"Who?" Sherlock didn't know who she was referring to.

"The man who was with you," Samantha told him.

"Doctor John Watson."

"Your roommate?"

"Yes."

Samantha frowned and looked around the room. "Is he okay?"

"He's gone to lunch." Sherlock glanced at his watch. "We have about five minutes before he returns."

She nodded, slowly leaning back to rest against the bed once more. Her heart rate was still high, Sherlock noted without comment. She was also pale, but Sherlock wasn't sure if that was simply because she was in pain or something even simpler.

"Will?"

"Yes?" Sherlock's response was immediate.

But Samantha's wasn't, as if she were hesitating to finish her thought. "I'm really scared."

Sherlock felt a rock in his throat as he tried to think of how to respond. Eventually he just gently squeezed her hand. He knew she would take it as he meant it – a reassurance that she might not be all right, but she definitely wasn't alone.

* * *

John arrived a few minutes later, Samantha still mostly awake. Sherlock could tell she didn't want to sleep and was fighting it. A rather childish thing to do, but he wondered if there was something in sleep she was trying to avoid.

The doctor was barely through the door before he was talking to Sherlock. "I brought back a sandwich and I expect you to actually eat it instead of…" He trailed off, noticing Samantha's open eyes on him. "Oh."

"John, this is Samantha Holmes. Sam, this is John Watson." Sherlock passed the introduction.

John smiled and waved slightly. "Hello."

Sam returned the smile and tipped her head as she repeated the greeting.

John pushed forward in his speech, trying not to leave room from any sort of awkward silence. "I really did bring you a sandwich, Sherlock." He tossed the plastic sack in his hand at his friend.

"I'm not hungry."

"Fascinating, considering you haven't eaten in at least twenty-four hours."

"Don't patronize me, John. We had a case."

"No, you've eaten since the case. This is different. Eat your food."

Sam laughed lightly, watching the exchange and that pulled both of the men's attention.

She shrunk in on herself slightly at the focus they'd placed on her. "Sorry, it's just a familiar conversation." Sam looked at Sherlock and lifted her eyebrows. "Why haven't you eaten then, if you're not on a case?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I wasn't hungry."

"He was worried," John said as if he were translating a foreign language for Samantha.

The girl smirked. "That's awfully nice of you."

"I wasn't worried. Worrying does nothing but waste—"

"—time you could use to solve the problem." Sam finished for him, still smirking. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what it was."

John smiled and sat in one of the chairs seemingly quite content.

"Well, John, it's nice to finally put a face to the name," Samantha said kindly.

John looked thoughtful. "Sherlock's told you about me?"

"Of course he has, he's living with you. All of his stories have you in them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"That's interesting because I hadn't heard of you until this whole situation happened," John mentioned, mildly confused.

Samantha hesitated, then looked to Sherlock. "You hadn't even mentioned me to him off-hand?"

Sherlock grimaced slightly. "No, it never came up."

"The fact that you have…" She stopped and reworded her sentence. "Mentioning to your flatmate that you're a legal guardian never came up? What about giving him a bit of warning so he knew what to expect?"

"He told me he plays the violin when he's thinking and sometimes he doesn't talk for days on end," John said, practically in a direct quote. "But nothing about having a daughter."

Samantha looked from John to Sherlock, who suddenly looked cornered. "I was definitely going to mention it."

"When? After I'd planned to come and visit?" Sam asked, more good-naturedly than John thought the phrase could ever be. "When did you actually tell him about me? When we were on the way to the hospital?"

She was joking, mostly, but that was the precise moment John realized Sherlock hadn't told her yet. Hadn't told her anything. He looked at his friend, who wasn't looking at anyone. Sherlock was staring at his knees, unmoving.

Samantha seemed to sense she'd approached a serious topic. "Will?"

After a silent moment, Sherlock lifted his chin to meet her eyes, removing his hand from hers. "I don't know how much you know about your kidnapping, but… a bomb went off at the museum. There were casualties, and we were told one of them was you."

Sam didn't react beyond a single blink of her eyes.

Sherlock continued. "Mycroft notified me shortly after your grandmother was informed. I told John then because I had to go to America to attend your funeral." The detective smirked, but it didn't hold. "John accompanied me."

There were tears in Samantha's eyes.

Sherlock hesitated. "I didn't want to see you like I've seen so many other people – dead because of humanity's violence. I was too afraid. So Martha was the one to identify the body as you, and it was cremated shortly after. By the time I arrived in Ohio, it was all finished."

He wasn't looking at her anymore, his eyes and head lowered in shame. "I didn't know you were alive until the pool."

The silence in the room was thick enough to suffocate. For a long time, no one said anything.

"I'm really sorry."

Sherlock looked up, confused. Why was Samantha the one apologizing? She hadn't done anything wrong.

But she looked so regretful, her face pinched into an expression that spoke of pain. "Had I listened to you last year—"

"Don't." Sherlock cut her off, and she looked slightly surprised. Whether that was because he had interrupted her or because of the pain in his own voice, Sherlock didn't know. "Please, Samantha," He pleaded. "Don't."

Her eyes welled up with tears. "But you'd said—"

"Even had you come to London and lived with me, or found a university in the UK to finish your degree, there's no guarantee this wouldn't have happened anyway."

John found himself satisfied at the exchange taking place, especially as Sherlock continued.

"This is not your fault." He told her. "And it's not mine either. It's Moriarty who is to blame."

They all knew that saying words and believing them were two different things. However, if only for a moment, Samantha decided she would pretend to believe them anyway and nodded her head.

Sherlock tried to smile. "I am truly sorry, though, for an additional reason."

"Why?" She asked.

"Because your favorite painting was caught in the explosion," Sherlock told her. "There was no recovering it."

Samantha tried to smile back. "That's okay; it was time for me to move on to a different one anyway." She looked down for a moment. "You actually flew to America for my funeral?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

"I promised," Sherlock told her, and John hadn't realized the detective could have been more serious than he was before. This was void of sadness, though, and there was an absence of any emotion other than his total focus and deliberate words. "Didn't I?"

Samantha seemed surprised. "You remember that?"

"Of course I did."

"Nothing against you, but I wasn't sure if you would keep it."

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

"Because funerals are events that are practically designed for you to hate." She answered as if she'd thought about it a lot. "I mean, nothing but sentimental talk about the person who passed, you sit there for hours sometimes doing nothing but listening to people talk and cry… It's basically everything you dislike."

Sherlock was still serious. "Of course I hated it, but that doesn't change that I promised. And I told you, back when we first met, that I wouldn't break a promise."

Samantha stared at him for a long moment before smiling sadly. "You enjoy proving me wrong, don't you?"

Sherlock smirked, the seriousness fading slightly. "I wouldn't say _enjoy_ exactly."

When Sam responded with a soft laugh, Sherlock's smile was easier.

John eyed the two with an expression that was mixed. Amused and confused, mostly. It was very odd, seeing how Sherlock acted around Samantha. The intensity of his emotional response was something John hadn't ever seen in him. Perhaps it would fade as the emotions did regarding Samantha's staged death, but John felt something in him doubting the theory.

* * *

A/N: Yup, anyway, it's freezing where I am. We're expected to drop to forty below tomorrow. That doesn't matter if you use Fahrenheit or Celsius, it's the only time both of those thermometers land on the same number.

I'm gonna stay inside so I still have fingers to type these out, okay?

Also, WanderingSoprano, I love this new username just as much as the last. I'm so glad you returned to review the next chapter! I hope you enjoy all of the angst. There may be too much angst. I had a friend of mine ask me if there even was such a thing as "too much angst". I guess I'll find out.

Stay warm for my sake.

~Signature


	9. The Urn

A/N: Hullo, friends. Life is busy, but I hope yours is wonderful. Here's a chapter.

* * *

"We're going to be laying ground rules for Samantha staying with us."

John was surprised to hear this, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps because the detective never struck him as someone who really followed rules, let alone make his own. But Sherlock had already brought up, rather nervously, the topic of Samantha staying with them. Apparently, Mycroft had offered to take her in, but both of the Holmes' had agreed that Samantha staying with Sherlock would be the best option until they figured out where she stood in both her physical and mental recovery.

She trusted Sherlock more, anyway.

"Sure." John agreed immediately.

Sherlock seemed surprised. "You're submitting? Just like that?"

"You know what she needs better than I do," John told him. "What are the rules?"

Sherlock looked away. "I know very few of her new triggers, but I know all of her old ones. This experience will probably cause a relapse of some kind."

That made sense, though that wasn't the kind of rule list John had been expecting. "What should I avoid?"

"Talking about bills, first off," Sherlock told him. "That isn't a trigger, but I don't want her to even think for a second that she's burdening us with her presence. And besides, while Sam is in our care, Mycroft assured me that housing will be entirely covered by him."

"Why?"

"Because it has to do with his niece's well-being during her recovery," Sherlock responded immediately. "And I'm off cases for a while. That's another thing we will not be bringing up. I've already discussed it with Lestrade."

John nodded.

Sherlock continued. "Samantha has hypersensitivity, so my experiments will be kept to a minimum. You're welcome. But this also means you can't get offended if she turns down anything."

"What do you mean by anything?" John asked. He wasn't going to be offended – Sherlock rarely accepted anything John offered him – but he wanted to be prepared for what sort of things she was sensitive of.

"Food, mostly, but also drinks on occasion and blankets or pillows. The reason you are not allowed to get offended is because I told her I wouldn't."

John felt there was a story behind that, and curiosity got the better of him. "What happened?"

"Cranberry juice," Sherlock admitted with a smirk. "She associates the smell of cranberry juice with an alcohol she was exposed to as a child. I offered her some – because it was fruit juice and that's what children drink – and she never told me. Nearly made herself sick trying to drink it, and we had a discussion about it."

The doctor nodded again, understanding. "What else?"

"There is one way she is similar to me, John, and that is simply that there are times during which she will not speak. I don't know how comfortable she is with you, yet, but take her silence as reassurance that she trusts you."

"Why?"

"She doesn't automatically feel a pressure to uphold social niceties." Sherlock elaborated.

John observed that Sherlock knew a lot about Samantha and wondered why he was surprised; she was his daughter, after all. "Anything else?"

What followed was a precise list of dos and don'ts outfitted with reasons and explanations so that John understood the situations behind each. This, Sherlock's intent, was so that John could make informed decisions when interacting with Samantha.

"A final thing, John, if you don't mind."

John looked at the detective. "I'll need to start writing these down if you have any more."

"No, just… thank you." Sherlock's voice was full of genuine gratitude.

John smirked at his flatmate. "You're welcome, Sherlock."

* * *

Samantha stood in front of the mirror in the hospital bathroom. Her face had the same structure. Her hair was the same mess of curls. Her shoulders were just as narrow. Her legs were just as long. Her eyes were just as blue.

It was almost scary, looking exactly the same as you did before any large event in your life.

It was as if your body refused to acknowledge how much you had changed.

Sam reached a hand up behind her back to feel the bandages underneath her shirt. She wasn't sure how much of what she felt was phantom pain.

The more she had tried to remember what had happened, the more successful she had been. Being in the museum, observing the eerie blues and greys of her favorite painting. Thinking of the solitariness of the only subject – a small figure in the distance. Wondering if he was lonely or just alone.

A loud noise, a cloud of dust that was thick and hard to breathe in. Screams.

A presence, a hand, people – men. Sharp pain in her arm.

Shaking herself back to the present, Samantha's fingers went subconsciously to the insert point of the anesthetic they'd given her. A new bruise matched her touch from the hospital-administered IV.

She'd woken in a small metal box, only just tall enough for her to stand in.

Suddenly, as she looked around, Sam decided the bathroom was a little too small for her taste. With a panic carefully concealed, she pushed the door open and exited.

Sherlock lifted his head to look at her, his hand half in a bag as he placed something inside of it. His eyes scraped over her as they tended to everyone. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, just tired still." A small lie. But Sam decided she couldn't take any more thinking about what had happened. It might just drag up more memories.

Ones she might not be able to cope with once she dwelled on them.

Sherlock nodded, obviously not completely believing her, and returned his attention to the bag. "We're nearly ready. John is ensuring the finalization of all the paperwork. We'll be out of here within the hour."

"Oh." That was good, wasn't it?

"You're apprehensive." Sherlock read her like a child's book.

Samantha hesitated. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm in London England and people think I'm dead, and leaving here means I have to deal with all of the real things in the world and that includes calling my grandmother," Sam spoke honestly. "And I don't think I'm ready to handle that."

Sherlock zipped his bag shut before looking at her. "Firstly, leaving the hospital doesn't mean anything – you've been dealing with the world this entire time. Just because it was limited to you and only you doesn't make it any less significant."

She felt scolded, for some reason. As if she'd just told him that math wasn't important and he was lecturing her on the significant uses of maths.

"Secondly," Sherlock paused, and his features softened. "Mycroft already contacted your grandmother. She cried I suppose."

Sam shrugged and regretted the action when it pulled her muscles the wrong way. "She'll still want to hear from me."

"You can call her tomorrow after you've settled in and had a nice rest in a place that doesn't smell like antiseptic," Sherlock said.

Samantha shifted her weight. "Where will that be?"

Sherlock put his arm through one strap of the bag. "Home."

* * *

It wasn't long after that when they finally left. The cab ride was quiet, none of them speaking.

That is until they were nearly to their destination.

Sherlock turned in his seat. "Do you remember Mrs. Hudson?"

Samantha looked at him. "Of course I do. Why?"

"I told you I got this flat from her, right?" Sherlock added. After the girl nodded, he continued. "She lives in the flat just below, so she comes in sometimes to visit."

Sam smirked. "I wonder if she'll remember me."

"Of course she will."

"I only remember her name because it's the same as my grandmother's," Sam admitted.

Sherlock smiled.

"Wait, you know Mrs. Hudson?" John asked.

Sam hesitated, and Sherlock answered. "After her father's case, we lived with Mrs. Hudson for the remaining duration of my stay in America."

They arrived at 221B and got out of the vehicle. Sherlock moved to the boot to grab the bag while John paid the cabbie. Sam stood on the sidewalk silently until she was joined by both of them and the taxi began to leave.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked.

Samantha turned to face the building, watching as John approached the large, dark door with a golden knocker. He unlocked it with his key and left it open for the other two to follow him in.

They did.

The stairs creaked, and Sam listened to them. The doors were silent. The flat itself was untidy, but it wasn't dirty. There were no smells she didn't recognize. There was evidence of someone beyond Sherlock, but Sam was eased to see Sherlock everywhere.

Her eyes moved to the mantle, a familiar skull catching her eyes. "You still have that?"

"I couldn't very well get rid of him, could I?" Sherlock responded, following her gaze.

Sam smirked and allowed her eyes to wander for a moment.

John stood half-way through the door and awkwardly cleared his throat to gain their attention. They both turned, identical expressions of askance on their face. John tried not to laugh. "Tea?"

After they both nodded, and John left, Sherlock returned his gaze to Samantha. She was staring intently at the mantel still. He followed her gaze to try and figure out what held her attention so securely.

She hesitantly approached the fireplace and reached out for the object setting directly next to the skull - the urn.

Sherlock watched her hold it in her hands carefully as if it would break if she breathed on it, and met her eyes when she looked at him. "Is this...?"

He nodded to confirm her theory.

She looked back at the object in her hands, a small frown forming on her lips. He wondered what she was thinking. For a few seconds, the only sound was of John moving about in the kitchen.

But then, Sherlock noticed her hands shaking. He reached out and took the urn from her gently, noticing how she only stared at where it had been settled in her palms.

"I'll take it to St. Bart's, and talk with some people I know about getting it properly identified," Sherlock spoke carefully.

Samantha only lowered her hands.

What could he say to make her feel better? It was hard to think of something, especially when he didn't know what she was feeling. "Then... we'll see about getting it delivered to the family this person should be with."

Now she lifted her eyes. It took her a little while to look at him, though.

Sherlock stood there, urn in hand, and smirked at her. "It'll all work out."

She felt a wave of something nearly melancholic. "How do you know that?"

He hesitated, glancing around for a moment to try and think of the proper response. However, he was never given the chance as John returned to ask them what they'd like with their tea.

* * *

A/N: I hope you've enjoyed that, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your day even more.

~Signature


	10. The Morning

A/N: Hello, lovelies, welcome back.

And WanderingSoprano, you are probably the only reason I managed to finish this chapter. Thank you for being so encouraging in your reviews.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to the sound of the shower starting. Due to his room being the one directly next to the bathroom, this wasn't unusual; whenever John got ready for work, the sound of the shower running would inevitably wake him up. It was no fault of John's, only the thinness of the walls.

But John had gotten home late the night before and didn't have to work this morning.

And it was 4:53 a.m.

He took a breath and threw off his blanket to get out of bed. In the darkness of his room, he fumbled for his dressing gown before putting it on crookedly and opening his door.

He saw his bare feet illuminated by the light coming from underneath the bathroom door as he treaded through the hall and into the sitting room. The street lights out the window shone a light on all of the obstacles in between Sherlock and his laptop on the table, so he had little difficulty going that far.

He lifted the lid of the computer and powered it on, squinting at the brightness of the screen until his eyes adjusted. He browsed through John's blog, looking at the aging posts before drifting through the comments absentmindedly, his eyes lingering on the clock more than the words.

It was nearly 5:30 before the shower turned off, and it was almost six before the door opened.

Samantha walked into the hall, drying her hair with a towel. She stopped halfway into the living room, all of her movements stilling. Sherlock looked up at her from his computer. "Good morning."

Sam didn't say anything, simply continuing farther into the room to approach him. She sat in the chair opposite, draping the towel around her shoulders and pulling her hair to rest on top of it.

"How long have you been up?" Samantha asked him.

Sherlock shrugged. "Only a few minutes."

As she had no reason to think he was lying, she believed him.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No." Sherlock realized he was doing quite a bit of lying. "I couldn't sleep."

Sam crossed her arms and melted further into her chair. "Me neither."

He watched her for a moment as she stared at the tabletop mutely. "Do you mind if I turn on a light?"

It seemed to take a moment before she processed his words. "No, you can."

Sherlock stood from his chair in did just that, the light of the room being brighter than he'd thought it would be, but not as bright as the computer screen. Sam still squinted though.

Neither of them spoke again until a few minutes after Sherlock retook his seat, and then it was he who said something. "How long have you been awake?"

"I didn't look at the clock when I woke up, so I don't really know. Probably not too long."

Sherlock hummed, forcing his eyes to look away from her so he wasn't staring. She would notice him staring. She always did.

Then Sam sighed, drawing his attention. She looked exhausted, and when she closed her eyes he could see the dark bruises underneath them. No one should look that tired upon waking up. Though, he supposed, she'd already been up for at least an hour.

"Can I ask you something?" Sam's voice was hesitant.

Sherlock closed the computer to show he was giving her his full attention.

And still, she paused as if waiting for something. "What's going to happen now?"

Sherlock tried to understand the context of her question. "Do you mean with where you will be staying? Or with…" Sherlock paused, realizing they hadn't discussed the subject at all since she'd woken up in the hospital.

And yet she knew exactly where that sentence would have finished. "Both."

"Oh." He thought about it. "Well, let's give your grandmother a call this afternoon, and you can talk to her and all of that. As for the latter…" He really didn't want to tell her. "He's vanished. Without a trace. Mycroft has people looking, but there's no way it will be a quick process."

"Are you helping?" She asked, obviously curious about it.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not allowed." At her confused expression, he elaborated. "I already asked if I could and the answer was no. My judgement is a little clouded in that area."

He really had tried asking his brother to keep him in the loop. Allow him to help. But, after a rather heated argument, they had both agreed on the end result.

Sam was nodding as if she knew all of what had transpired.

After a moment, Sam asked, "What are your plans for the day?"

"I just finished a rather large case, so I'm currently on holiday," Sherlock told her. "I'll probably read or something."

Sam took a moment to be amused before her thoughts drifted away again to something apparently less pleasant. It was moments like this in which Sherlock wished he could read minds. Sam's had always been a little unpredictable. He could make a guess, sure, but he hated guessing. Sometimes he had to settle with just not knowing.

"What about John?"

"He took the day off, too," Sherlock answered. "He'll do the shopping later."

"How do you know?" Sam asked.

"He always does the shopping on his days off," Sherlock told her. "I never do, so he does whenever he has the time."

"You still don't like stores?" Sam asked.

"They're horrible," Sherlock confirmed. "There's just so much stupid in one building – I don't know how anyone could work there. They deserve to make more than they do, no doubt."

Sam laughed a little under her breath. "That's what happens when you deal with the public."

Sherlock smirked, recalling that she worked with the public all of the time at the library back in the U.S. And apparently that's where he mind went, too, because her eyes suddenly widened.

" _Everyone_ thinks I'm dead?"

"I'm not sure who your grandmother has contacted," Sherlock said.

"So Amelia might not know I'm okay," Sam spoke quietly. "I'd better call her, too."

"Do you have her number?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Memorized," Sam admitted, tapping the side of her head with her index finger. "Hers, yours, and Grandma's."

Samantha had never been good with numbers, but memorization she could always do. Sherlock was quite proud of that fact. "What would you like for breakfast?" He asked.

Sam blinked. "I'm not hungry."

"Not now, I was thinking after John wakes up."

Her eyebrows lifted. "You're going to make him cook?"

Sherlock tried not to be offended. "No, I was going to invite him with us."

"Invite him where?"

"There's a place a short way from here. They make amazing eggs."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! I've never minded reviews (hint, hint)

Also, if there's anyone in particular you might want to see Samantha interact with / be introduced to, let me know. Do remember that this will also probably involve the reveal that Sherlock has adopted a child. That could be pretty funny and/or dramatic. For the sake of not being bombarded with questions, there are only eight people in England that know about it and that is Sherlock and Samantha, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, the Holmes parents, and Moriarty. They've literally told no one else. I'm pretty sure. I'll double check.

Anyway, have a day that isn't the worst.

~Signature


	11. The Afternoon

A/N: Short version - not dead. Sorry, friends. It's been a while. More at the bottom, if you're curious. Otherwise, enjoy this long-overdue chapter.

Review Response at the end.

* * *

They did have amazing eggs. And, apparently, the restaurant owner owed Sherlock a favor, because all three of their meals were entirely paid for. They all enjoyed their breakfast, though some ate more than others. Something was still on Samantha's mind, and Sherlock and John could both tell. It didn't take a genius when the girl only picked at her food absentmindedly, staring off into space.

The flatmates made eye contact, briefly acknowledging that they both discovered the same thing. John was the one to clear his throat in preparation to speak. "How have you been feeling, Samantha?"

She blinked herself out of whatever daze she'd fallen victim to. "Hm? Oh, all right."

John's eyebrows rose slightly. "All right?" He quoted questioningly.

Samantha shrugged. "I don't know what else you're expecting."

John hesitated. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Some," was the quick reply, and she shoveled some of her food into her mouth.

John recognized the tactic – Sherlock had done it often enough. She wouldn't answer questions with her mouth full. Sherlock, however, did it so that John would leave him alone because he was annoyed. Samantha seemed to do it to delay him from asking questions. As if she needed to time think in between them. A break.

So, John waited until she swallowed before he asked his next one. "Is there anything you need to do today that we can help with?" John gestured to himself and Sherlock.

Samantha lifted a loaded fork to her mouth before she hesitated. The food hovered in the air for a moment before she settled it back on her plate. "I still have permission to borrow your phone?" She asked Sherlock, who nodded confirmation.

She hesitated. "Well… I need clothes. And a hairbrush. And I'd really like to brush my teeth."

"Your grandmother is sending some of your clothes, and everything else will be taken care of by the end of today," Sherlock said.

John wondered just how much Mycroft was taking care of.

"Though it may take a while for your clothes to get here," Sherlock continued. "We should probably get you some for the meantime."

Samantha nodded. "Then… I need a ride to the store. And money." She grimaced. "Sorry."

What she had to apologize for, John didn't know. "We can take care of that, don't worry about it." He tried his best to sound reassuring.

Samantha looked mildly surprised. Perhaps it was because she barely knew him. John, however, knew a great deal about her and forgot about the gap of knowledge between them.

"You can call your grandmother when we get back to the flat, and then we can start on the other things," Sherlock told her, waving his hand as if to brush it off to the side. "Is there anything else?"

Samantha hesitated. "I don't think so?"

"Perfect." Sherlock stood. "Since you're both done eating, let's head back."

John stared. "Who said I was done eating?"

"You did." Sherlock shrugged his coat on. "And Sam is, too. So, let's _go_."

John looked over at Samantha, who was also on her feet and slipping on the coat she was borrowing from Mrs. Hudson's plethora, giving John an apologetic look. For Sherlock's hastiness, no doubt. It had been a long while since John had been on the receiving end of such a look instead of the giving end, and it caught him by surprise.

"Are you just going to sit there gawking? Come on, we're wasting daylight."

John rolled his eyes, finally standing and putting on his own jacket.

* * *

It didn't take them too long to get back to the flat.

John moved to the kitchen to see what they had and what they needed from the shop, and Samantha stood in front of the fireplace, hesitating.

Sherlock pulled his mobile out from the front pocket of his coat and held it out to her.

She eyed it in his hand, not moving to take it.

"What is putting it off going to do for you?"

She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Nothing, probably."

He nodded. "Exactly."

She sighed and took his phone from him. It wasn't long before she had the number inserted, and she hesitated again, briefly, before pressing the call button and placing the phone against her ear.

Sherlock watched her face pinch in apprehension and her weight shift back and forth as the phone rang and she waited uncomfortably.

Then, after a moment, "Hi, Grandma."

But instead of her posture relaxing upon hearing her grandmother's voice, something else happened. Her face softened for just a moment before her eyebrows pinched together in concern, and her shoulders stiffened. Something was wrong.

Sherlock tried to read it on her face.

"Are you okay?" Jaw tightened. "No, I'm fine, that's why I'm calling you. To tell you I'm fine. Don't worry about me." Eyebrow twitch. "That's not… no, no, are _you_ okay?"

Samantha put her free hand on her head. "Yeah, yeah I know. It was bad. But that doesn't change…" Her fingers curled into her hair.

John walked to the kitchen door and paused, looking between Samantha's distressed form and Sherlock's intensely focused face.

The detective knew that something was wrong with Martha Karnes. Health-wise, he'd known for a while that she was declining. And she hadn't looked very healthy when he'd seen her only a week prior. The sort of news Samantha was receiving, he knew it wasn't positive and probably had to do with Martha's health.

The color drained out of her face slowly. She stumbled backward into John's chair and sat rather abruptly.

John and Sherlock had both jumped forward slightly as if to catch her. Sherlock stopped short, and John redirected the movement to walk around in front of her. Both of them kept track of her breathing, and Sherlock noted how she clenched her eyes shut, and her hand shook where it was still tangled in her hair. She looked like she was ill.

She opened her mouth but hesitated briefly before speaking. "Have you gone to the hospital yet?" After a pause, that was probably filled with a response, her lips tightened into a thin line. "You should."

John glanced at Sherlock, who didn't reveal anything in his face about what he was gathering from the conversation.

There was a long silence in which Samantha only listened, and she slowly lowered her free hand into her lap. She opened her eyes, glancing at John and Sherlock before lowering her gaze to her lap. Her voice sounded strained. "Do you want me to be there?"

They hadn't been able to hear anything on the other side of the conversation, and this time was no different. But the answer, whatever it was, brought tears to Samantha's eyes. "I've never… You know I don't care about that."

She scoffed at whatever was said next. "That's not what I think. I want to be there."

What Martha said next caused Samantha to still. Her face cleared of emotion for only a fraction of a second before becoming a twisted mix of many. As if she couldn't choose.

Eventually, she closed her eyes tightly. "I love you." She spoke softly, her voice breaking on the last word.

She pulled the mobile away from her face, staring at the display until the call was ended from the other side.

"Sam?" John called to her carefully.

She didn't look at him, instead wordlessly handing the phone to Sherlock.

"How is she?" Sherlock asked.

"I knew she was bad. I didn't think she was this bad – this far… gone." Sam looked to where her hands rested in her lap. "She doesn't want me there. Apparently I don't need to worry myself with it. As if she's some sort of chore."

The disgust in her voice, they knew, wasn't for her grandmother.

"I just…" Her voice was higher with the sound of tears. She stood, pushing past them to race out of the room and up the stairs.

Neither man moved until after they heard the door to her room slam.

John looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "That went well."

"It could have been worse."

John looked at his flatmate, who still stared resolutely at the door Sam had left through. "How?"

"Martha could have died already," Sherlock spoke monotonously. "Significant stress can aggravate health conditions. Losing a family member is considered significant stress." Sherlock looked at the mobile in his hand, turning it over in his palm. "I'm actually surprised she was still there to call."

"And you didn't warn Sam?" John couldn't help his annoyance. "Why?"

Sherlock sighed. "Martha called me last week. Before we knew Samantha was alive. She told me that she was glad Sam wasn't around anymore to see her in the state she was in."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'd forgotten about it until we were at breakfast." Sherlock looked at John, his expression tense. "Warning her wouldn't have been easier."

John didn't agree, but as Sherlock looked away he caught the expression of uncertainty on Sherlock's face. He decided then not to push it. The last thing he needed was both Holmes' to be locking themselves in their rooms brooding. It would make for a miserable time trying to coax them both out to eat supper later.

He sighed again, moving to his chair and grabbing his laptop. He watched as Sherlock sit on the sofa and stare toward the windows with an unreadable expression. What was running through his mind?

Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes had always been a mystery. Adding Sam to the mix didn't change that in the slightest.

* * *

A/N: You'll probably get two update notifications, but this is actually the only new chapter. I fixed an error in the last one; a repeated scene. You see, I'm writing this in a separate document, and some of the scenes are out of order.

If you really can't care less about my life, than this is all you need to know: I'm home right now, so I'm planning to get back on top of updating this regularly to distract myself from the panic going on in the world. But we'll see how well that goes.

If you do care, here's a life update since I last posted: I moved to go to university. It wasn't too far away, but being on campus was new and stressful and I couldn't write a word. My depression came back and hit me like a brick to the face. I've got a therapist now. I'm home again because my university closed for the remainder of the semester.

I'm really sorry that all of that made it so I couldn't update, and I'm also sorry that a lot of this is probably going to be sub-par, but I'm determined to finish _something_ dammit. Just to prove I can, if nothing else.

 **REVIEW RESPONSES** : I feel the need to do this because I appreciate you all very much.

 **Honourable** : Thank you. I'm sorry there hasn't really been progress for you to see, but hopefully this suffices.

 **WanderingSoprano** : I might have said this before but your reviews are something I adore seeing notifications for, and I'm so delighted by your continuing support. I'm sorry you've had to wait so long.

 **Lyridium** : You said you couldn't wait, and I made you wait so long. I'm hoping it won't ever be that long again.

Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews. They truly do keep me going. Have a not terrible day. Please stay safe and try to find peace in this troubling time. Best of luck.

~Signature


	12. The Evening

A/N: Hey, friends. Pals. Mates. Another update because you deserve it.

* * *

It had been hours. There had been no sight of Sam.

John had already gone shopping and returned. When he'd entered the flat, he'd looked around and gave Sherlock a silently questioning look. Sherlock had shaken his head at the question in the doctor's eyes but said nothing else.

They'd barely talked until almost three.

"You should probably go talk to her."

Sherlock looked at John after his sudden statement. "What for?"

"She just received bad news. Someone she cares about is dying. She probably needs someone to be there with her right now. Let her know she's not alone."

"How do you know she wants that?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know if she wants it, Sherlock. I just know that she needs it." John said.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his curly hair. "These are… emotions, John. I don't if you've noticed but I don't do human emotion that well." He shook his head, almost annoyed. "I don't even know what to say to her."

"What did you need to hear when you thought she'd died?" John asked. "What would have helped you?"

Sherlock stopped at that, thinking hard. He didn't have a clue. Not really. All he remembered was that he had been very thankful for John being with him. Through all of it.

The detective sighed and stood, straightening his posture the same way he did before entering a crime scene. Determination filled his face, and that was all John noticed before Sherlock walked toward Samantha's room.

When Sherlock got to the top of the stairs, he'd hesitated. Maybe she didn't want to be interrupted. Or maybe she was angry. The twinge of worry came back in the silence that radiated from her room. Was she even still in there? He'd never noticed her exiting, but maybe he'd been distracted. What if she wasn't as okay as he thought?

Anxiety caused a pulse of adrenaline to rush through his veins and he tried to calm himself.

Sherlock knocked on Samantha's door hesitantly. "Sam?"

He heard a soft, muted thud, and resisted the urge to open the door himself. "Sam, are you all right?"

"Don't come in."

"I won't," Sherlock responded, detecting the deep fear in her voice. "What's wrong?"

No response.

"I won't come in, but I'm worried." He admitted, knowing she would want to know his current emotional state. She always appreciated updates. "I'm worried that you're not safe. Are you safe?"

"Y-yes."

"That's wonderful." He told her. "I'm happy about that. Are you hurt?"

"No."

"That's good as well." He added. "What's going on?"

Silence.

"I can't know if you don't tell me.

"You know everything." It was from just inside the door as if she was standing right next to it.

He resisted the urge to open the door. "No, I learn. And I can't learn about what I can't see."

Not necessarily true, but she didn't need to know that.

A ringing silence.

Sherlock swallowed tightly, worry still clawing at his lungs. "Can I open the door?"

"Why?"

"I'm still worried about you."

There was a pause before he saw the doorknob move. He stepped backward to create a distance so as not to cause her more panic by his closeness.

When she opened the door completely, he noted her face was dry but splotchy, as if she were crying but had wiped away her tears. "Now's not a great time."

"I understand," Sherlock spoke slowly. "But you've been up here a while. I was wondering if you'd like something to eat."

She shook her head negatively.

"Tea?" He tried instead.

Another shake of her head.

He hesitated. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not now."

Sherlock hated this. He had no idea what to do. How to help.

He hated not knowing.

"Sam—"

"I just need space." She interrupted him, not making eye contact. "I-I… I need time. Or something. I don't know." She bit her lip, obviously trying not to cry again.

He shifted toward her, and she moved forward, burying her face into his chest and wrapping her arms tightly around his ribcage. He settled his arms around her shoulders.

"I don't know what I need." Her voice was muffled slightly by his shirt. "I don't know anything anymore." He felt a sob run through her shoulders. "I never wanted this."

He squeezed her tighter, careful of the injury on her back, trying to express his presence. "I know you didn't."

Because of her tears, her voice was shaking. "I just want it all to stop."

Sherlock paused, unsure of how to respond. His heart clenched painfully as if in sympathy of her plight, and he closed his eyes tightly. Hesitantly, he lifted one of his hands and placed it on the back of her head. Her breath caught momentarily before releasing into something calmer than it was before.

The tension in her shoulders left as she melted further into his embrace and Sherlock found himself startled into momentary stillness.

But he remembered how his mother used to comb her fingers through his hair when he was particularly upset. He tried to recreate the feeling for Samantha, and it seemed to be working. She was calming. Her breathing evened out.

"I know how upsetting this must be." He said carefully. "I'm sorry."

She dug her fingers into the back of his shirt, her hands shaking minutely, but she said nothing.

Sherlock just continued to comb her hair. "Everything that's happened recently… it's a lot. You're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to be angry. Or sad." He looked down at the top of her dark hair. "It's okay."

"No, it's not."

He blinked, surprised. "What?"

"It's not okay."

Sherlock thought about that. "You're right. None of this is okay. But it will be."

She shook her head, pushing her face harder against his arm.

"Sam, look at me." He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away from him. Her splotchy face was wet again, and Sherlock felt the wetness of his shirt where she'd put her head. He ignored it and looked into her eyes. "It will be okay."

She looked down.

He gently cupped her face in his hands, his fingers cool against her cheeks. He brushed his thumb underneath her eyes to brush away the tears there. She stared at him, confused and distressed.

Sherlock stared back. "It will all be okay. Maybe it's not now. Maybe it won't be for a while. But, someday, it will be. Everything will be okay."

Her lips tightened and he saw her eyes fill with tears again. He released her face to hug her again, firm and resolute.

She cried then. Deep sobs that shook her shoulders. Samantha burrowed into his arms as if he could shield her from all of the pain and fear she'd felt in the last few weeks. All of the pain and fear she must have felt right then.

He knew he couldn't. Not for long, at least. But he would certainly try. For as long as possible.

* * *

He'd convinced her to come down for tea.

John had already made some, and Sherlock told him Samantha usually drank hers with no cream or sugar, so he poured her some when she and Sherlock entered the sitting room.

"Thank you." She spoke softly, taking the mug he offered in her trembling hands.

John was concerned, but said nothing, instead moving to his chair and settling in.

Sherlock turned to face her from where he sat on the sofa, his knees basically to his chest. "Did you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Do you think you should?"

Now she hesitated. "Maybe."

"Okay." Sherlock took a sip of his tea. It was still hot, but the sting of the drink on his lip wasn't at the forefront of his mind.

She sighed. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

She seemed to hesitate, thinking about her answer. Eventually, she lowered her gaze to her drink. "I don't know."

They all sat in quiet for a long moment. Samantha brought the mug to her lips but didn't drink it. Instead, she just inhaled the steam for a few moments. The scent calmed her, and her shoulders drooped.

She looked exhausted. What could have been only a few hours of sleep the night before was catching up with her.

Sherlock set his mug down on the coffee table and moved to the window. Samantha watched as he lifted his violin from its case and settled it on his shoulder. A few seconds later, a tune drifted out from it and fluttered through the room.

It pushed all of the confusing thoughts out of Samantha's mind as her ears filled with the music. She felt like she recognized it as if she'd heard him play it before. Maybe she had, a long time ago.

Samantha remembered back when he'd first adopted her. They were staying with Martha while Samantha recovered from their escapade. He had played his violin for a while that night. She'd fallen asleep to the sound of that very violin a number of times.

Samantha set her mug of tea on the coffee table gently, glancing at John. The doctor was watching Sherlock play, as transfixed as Samantha had found herself only moments ago.

Sam tried to remember how long it had been since Sherlock said John had moved in. A month ago? Maybe two. The timeline was all fuzzy in her mind.

She'd begun to notice that, over the last few days. Things were fuzzy. It wasn't just the events directly before waking up in the hospital, but at least a month before it. She couldn't remember what she was supposed to have learned in her classes. She couldn't remember what books the library had gotten in their shipment last month. It was strange.

All of it had become… fuzzy.

Samantha leaned her head back against the sofa, feeling the top of her head brush the wall behind it.

Was it some sort of side effect? Maybe trauma-induced amnesia was a thing. She didn't like how that sounded, though. How could something be traumatic if she could barely remember it?

All she remembered were flickering details. Dark spaces. Cold floors. Sharp pain.

Samantha felt her heart rate rise and tried to push the thoughts away. She focused on the crisp sound of the violin. The music was less welcoming now. It served more as an anchor than a source of calm. In that way, she still needed it.

As she attempted to steady her breathing, Samantha tried to let the music do what it had done before; wash out her thoughts and fill her mind.

Nothing but music.

Nothing but sound.

Nothing but noise.

Nothing.

* * *

Samantha had fallen asleep on the sofa.

When John finally noticed, he wondered how long she'd been asleep for. Her head tilted back at the angle it was left her mouth slightly open.

He heard Sherlock softly drift the song he played to silence before he moved to John's chair to grab the afghan folded on its back.

Sherlock opened it as he approached Samantha, and softly draped it over her, tucking it gently near her shoulders.

John watched, mute. This wasn't the first time John had seen Sherlock do something father-like to Samantha, but it caused him to pause every time. That this man could be the same cold, calculating machine he saw at crime scenes baffled him.

Sherlock grabbed his mug of tea from the coffee table and moved to his chair, sipping the drink as he sat.

John looked at his friend that now sat across from him. Their usual spots, but it all felt suddenly very unusual.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," John replied.

The detective didn't seem to believe him. "Should I have asked before I used your afghan?"

John blinked, confused. "What? No, it's fine, I wasn't using it."

Sherlock nodded, glancing back at the occupant of the sofa.

John followed his gaze. "She looks peaceful."

Sherlock shrugged. "At least she's asleep."

"If we leave her for too long, she probably won't sleep tonight," John mentioned.

Sherlock shook his head and looked into his tea as if it held the answer to every burning question in his mind. "She won't sleep tonight anyway."

* * *

A/N: Another update. Because you deserve one, and I spent the day writing the second half. You lovelies deserve much more than this update. You deserve fresh air, and sweet sounds and smells. Familiar places and friendly faces.

Drink some water.

Hang in there.

~Signature


	13. The Time for Talking

A/N: Good day, pal. Do enjoy the update. Or don't. I won't tell you what to do. Here it is.

* * *

Samantha couldn't remember what was happening or where she was. Only one thought flooded her mind. Get away – get _away_ – _get away_. She kicked her feet out, pushing herself further up – up? And her head knocked against something hard enough that she opened her eyes. Eyes she hadn't realized were shut.

Her breathing came in gasps as she looked around the room. Where was she?

Will's flat.

Samantha forced herself to relax, sinking back onto the sofa she half-stood on, her head smarting from where she'd smacked it into the wall, and her back stinging from how she'd aggravated the wound there. Adrenaline and panic replaced her blood and the feeling wasn't wearing off.

She tried to focus on what she knew; she was safe. (Was she?) She was in Will's flat, and he had a roommate named John. He was nice. (At least as far as she could tell.) And a doctor. And Will wasn't Will to people here. He called himself Sherlock. He'd done that for as long as she'd known him.

Samantha took a deep breath and rubbed the back of her head. It was dark. Night. A blanket that must have been covering her was half kicked off.

She grabbed it in shaking hands and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, ignoring the pain as it pressed against her sore back. The material was well-worn. Almost rough, but not quite. A blanket well-loved, it seemed.

She tucked her knees to her chest and slowly leaned sideways until her head settled against the armrest of the sofa. From where her hands clenched the blanket to her chest, she could feel her heartbeat match the rhythm in her head.

Still pounding.

Still frightened.

Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. At least she hadn't screamed. Or, if she had, at least no one seemed to hear.

Eventually, she relaxed enough to release the poor afghan from her vice-like grip. she tucked it closer to her chin and looked out at the strange shadows in the room, cast by the soft light entering through the windows. So many odd shapes and it made sense considering all of the odd things.

She knew that Will would never admit it, but he was a collector of sorts. Thing reminded him of other things. He kept the ones he liked. While his mind was always clear of debris and pointless knowledge, his living space had always been less than tidy. More on the verge of chaotic.

Something in Samantha resonated with that chaos, so she never complained. Never criticized.

She'd only heard John say something about the clutter once, and it was of the mess on the table in the kitchen less than the main room of the flat.

John was nice. Samantha respected him for the fact he didn't treat Sherlock horribly because of his eccentricities but also didn't let him get away with everything he wanted.

" _He's a doctor. Home from deployment_ ," Sherlock had told her, the night after they'd met.

" _And you're going to room with him?_ " She'd asked.

" _If he accepts_ ," had been the response.

Samantha remembered a lot from that conversation. Sherlock told her everything he'd learned about John from their short meeting in the lab at St. Bart's. He seemed pleasant at least. She'd wondered what that would mean for the summer when she was planning to visit. She'd wondered if Will had ever told him about her.

Samantha blinked a few times, bringing herself back to the present. The darkness seemed less scary in the early morning like this. At least, she thought it was early morning. It was too dark to see the clock properly.

She wasn't sure how long she laid there without moving, but eventually she dozed off again. A light sleep peppered with moments of wakefulness. Every sound and shadow jolted her from her sleep before she floated back into it seconds later.

Then, suddenly, she was aware of John. He stopped just inside the door, probably noticing she never went to bed.

Her eyes being well-adjusted to the dark, and his probably not, he didn't seem to notice she was awake and looking at him. She watched as he picked his way over to the kitchen and turned on the light there.

It was painful. Sam squinted and blinked, eventually averting her gaze entirely so she could properly adjust to the change. She debated for a moment to just lay there and pretend to sleep.

But she wasn't sleeping, and she could hear John moving around in the kitchen carefully.

So she stood, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, and entered the kitchen.

When John noticed, he started. Samantha tried not to laugh. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was already up."

The doctor nodded. "Would you like some toast?"

The next several minutes were spent in a comfortable silence as John made toast and finished brewing the coffee he'd started before Sam had entered. It was only broken when John asked her if she'd like some of the coffee.

"No, thanks, I'm not really a fan."

John smirked. "You like black tea but not coffee?"

"It's different."

He shrugged. "You're right on that one. Are you lactose intolerant?"

"No."

"Would you like some milk instead, then? It's not contaminated yet." He hesitated. "Probably."

Sam's lip twitched into something akin to a smile. "Sure."

A few minutes later, and they both sat at the cluttered table with toast and their choice of drink. John kept an eye on his watch, Samantha noticed. She wondered if him making her toast was going to make him late for work. Surely if that were the case, he would have left already.

"How did you sleep?" John asked innocently.

Samantha took a bite of her toast to stall as she thought about how she should answer. Lie? No. She was awake already. He had to have already guessed on his own. She swallowed the bite. "Not great."

John nodded. "The sofa isn't as comfortable as it looks sometimes."

Samantha's smirk was back. "It was fine. I'm surprised you let me sleep."

John shrugged. "Sherlock said you hadn't slept well the night before either."

Ah, so it was a trend they were picking up on. "I think I still need to adjust to being here."

He nodded but didn't seem to agree or disagree. Maybe he had other theories? She didn't blame him for it; she knew that she wasn't being totally honest.

He looked at his watch again before beginning to stand. "I've got to head to work. I'll see you this afternoon, yeah?"

"Sure."

John smiled softly, almost fondly. "Have a nice day, Sam."

She tried to smile. "You too, John."

After that, he'd left. Samantha continued to sit at the table in the kitchen, the smell of coffee still lingering in the air. Once she'd finished her toast, she migrated back to the sofa in the sitting room.

Sitting in silence had never truly bothered her, but sometimes it was suffocating.

This was one of those days.

* * *

Sherlock exited his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He made a half-hearted attempt to flatten his hair before disregarding the mess entirely and walking into the kitchen. It smelled of coffee. John had left the pot on.

He didn't think of much as he poured himself a mug of the dark beverage, and it was only once he entered the next room that he registered the other presence.

Samantha sat on the sofa, a book in her lap. It was a thick tome, and one look at the shelves next to the fireplace told him she'd grabbed it from his collection.

He paused when she made eye contact. "Hello."

She smiled slightly. "Hi. How'd you sleep?"

Sherlock shrugged and shuffled to his chair. "Not terribly well. You?"

"Likewise."

He hummed in response. It didn't surprise him. Judging by her clothes and the afghan still on her lap, she'd spent the whole night on that sofa. He knew from experience that it wasn't very comfortable. "Why didn't you go back to your room?"

Samantha fingered the edge of the page in her hand. "I didn't feel like it."

He nodded and sipped his coffee.

They were both quiet for a long moment.

"Sam…" Sherlock trailed off, suddenly hesitant.

But he'd snagged her attention; she looked at him expectantly.

"Are you all right?"

She frowned. "Why do you ask?"

Sherlock looked to the kitchen instead of at her. "You've only been out of the hospital for a few days." Not to mention the trauma she'd probably experienced at the hands of Moriarty only a few days before that. She seemed fine. Almost normal, if quieter than that. But something was off.

She shrugged. "I'm still sore, but other than that I'm okay."

He didn't believe her.

"What?" She asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"As if you can figure out everything if you just stare at me long enough." She said finally.

"You've had a few difficult experiences right after each other," Sherlock said, thinking he was putting it lightly.

She frowned. "And maybe I won't be as fine with everything when I think about it, but right now I'm fine. Just tired and sore."

That was the other thing. Tired. He'd heard her last night, probably about an hour after he'd gone to bed. He'd been in the hallway by the time he'd heard the thump that was probably something hitting the wall. Her elbow, hand, head… he didn't know. But her breathing had steadied, and she'd stopped whimpering.

That was what caused his disbelief when she said she was fine; the whimpering. She'd had a nightmare.

Not surprising, but not good.

It explained her sleeping pattern at least. She'd never really been a morning person.

Samantha had gone back to reading her book, and Sherlock went back to looking into his coffee.

"You know that you can talk to me." Sherlock didn't look at her, but he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. "About anything."

There was a long pause.

"Don't you?" Sherlock added, finally looking her way.

She looked torn.

He tried not to be offended. They had fallen out of touch in the last few months. Even before all of this had started. With John moving in and Martha's health declining, they'd both talked less. He tried to be someone she trusted. Someone she could confide in. And, before, he'd seen evidence of his success.

But now it was as if his success had only been temporary.

Trust was a fickle thing.

"It's okay if you don't want to." He added so she didn't feel pointless pressure to speak. "But I want to help you. If I can."

She nodded mutely, looking blankly at the tome in her lap.

Sherlock nodded, too. More for his own benefit. He drank his coffee without really tasting it.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for checking in. We'll hop back into the actual meat of the story in a beat, but these parts are important.

Good luck with tomorrow.

~Signature


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